


A Scandal in Hogwarts

by l_am_adlocked



Series: Adlock Cross-Overs [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Adlock, F/M, Potter!Lock, Potterlock, adlock au, adlock yacht, professor holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-07-20 02:26:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 57,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7386922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_am_adlocked/pseuds/l_am_adlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene Adler, the Lady of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Adler, was sent by a rising dark lord named James Moriarty to Sherlock Holmes, the Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.</p><p>A Scandal in Belgravia: rewritten and placed in the Potter Universe. There will be some added scenes to fit the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sherlock Holmes and the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8445313) by [ca_hawkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ca_hawkins/pseuds/ca_hawkins). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A certain professor, who had recently come back to Hogwarts to continue teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts, was summoned by the highest in the land.
> 
> Word Count: 5,226

 

 **Photographs made by me.**    
See more from i-am-adlocked.tumblr.com

* * *

 **KING'S CROSS STATION**  
**September 01, 2010**  
 **AT THE PRESENT MOMENT**

Another probably-boring year.

All the excitement from playing with a certain dark lord named James Moriarty finally came crashing down as Sherlock Holmes sits in one of the compartments in the Hogwarts Express.

Yes, he could have just flooed in or stayed at Hogwarts weeks prior today but where is the fun in that?

He's been in that castle as a professor for years now, and he has roamed around the school plenty of times when he was still a student there. As of now, he has explored possible all the secret passages in the castle  _without_ the help of Harry Potter's secret map (although he was the one who possessed it in his first year before handing it over to the Weasley Twins).

Still, things tend to get boring after years of teaching  _Defence Against the Dark Arts_ to students who cloud their minds with the thought that only magic can save them in the end. It's infuriating how the war didn't change the wizard traditions as much as it should have. Then again, from his observation, the primary end goal of that war was to end an evil, not to make change for the society.

Sitting in the train relaxes his mind. A wave of nostalgia washes over him as he remembers sitting with Mike Stamford—who is three years older than him [1]. Mike went out of their compartment for a little while before coming back with none other than John Watson in his tow.

As he tries to remove the memory from his mind since it's been a distraction to him all day, he rearranges his mind palace, which he created by using muggle means—through sheer intelligence and willpower, instead. Using his mastered skill in Occlumency, he had heightened and improved the walls of his mind, and secured its locks to reassure none would get in.

"Er, professor? Sir? We arrived, sir. Sir?" he finally hears someone say.

Blinking and coming back to present time, the first things he sees are yellow-striped scarves and badges on the coats of the two students in front of him.

"How long since the train stopped?" he asks.

"It's only been about two minutes since the train's empty, sir."

Grumbling, he stands up and leaves to go to the castle, choosing instead to walk instead of riding the carriages being pulled by the Thestrals. He uses the time to exercise his legs and to internally prepare himself for another boring year.

* * *

 **NORTHERN SCANDINAVIA**  
**April 01, 2010**  
 **FIVE MONTHS AGO**

Sherlock stares at him, his wand pointing at the bomb which Moriarty modified by combining magic and muggle technology so the impact would be much more drastic. Unfortunately, none of them would be able to shield themselves from such an explosion since it is made from both societies—making it unpredictable.

Sherlock and John are currently by the lake beside Durmstrang Institute where Carl Powers was thought to have drowned after having a fit in the water—a tragic accident hiding a gruesome murder.

Sherlock, figuring out that one James Moriarty had actually used muggle means to kill his fellow student at the time, came to this very spot to confront the rising Shadow Dark Lord. He holds in his hand—a key to one of the vaults in Gringotts where, inside, houses plans and codes being used between the Ministry of Magic and the Muggle Society's British Government.

Moriarty himself stands a few feet away from the other two, wearing his Westwood suit, hair perfectly combed, and an evil innocent grin upon his features. The Death Eaters (or whatever the hell Moriarty calls them, though everyone else simply calls them Death Eaters as well) are hiding in the shadows. The only indicator that they are there are their wands lighting up and pointing it at them—ready to fire at command.

As they stare at each other in silence, Moriarty suddenly rolls his eyes, taking an object from his pocket, looking at it momentarily before raising it to his ear. He knows that the other two could see that he is holding a mirror—a one-way mirror, to be exact. It's his own way of contacting more trustworthy people but some are still rather questionable so he still hides his facial identity.

Moriarty knows that the Muggle Society have more practicality with technology and are far more advanced than the Wizard Society. His mirror is heavily inspired by the typical phone—the volume on the other side could only hear a whisper, hence the reason why he's raising the mirror to his ear—an extra bonus on hiding his facial features.

However, the person on the other end knows him personally, making him all the more exasperated.

"Hello?" he greets, irritated.

" _James Moriarty?_ " the soft feminine voice asks.

"Yes of course, it is. What do you want?" he snaps before looking momentarily at Sherlock to mouth, "Sorry."

"It's fine," Sherlock mouths back at him sarcastically.

" _I had a client from the Ministry, and he unconsciously revealed a prophecy about the whole web in the Department of Mysteries. Apparently, it's labelled as the network's and something called the newton. My client said it basically talks about your possible downfall._ "

"SAY THAT AGAIN!" he yells. "Say that again and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will ssssssskin you."

" _I have a replica of the prophecy right now._ "

"Okay, wait," he says before walking towards the other two wizards who are watching him with curious eyes.

As Moriarty moves forward, Sherlock tightens his hold on his wand, aiming at the bomb firmly and standing straighter threateningly.

"Sorry—" Moriarty starts—"wrong day to die."

"Oh? Did you get a better offer?"

Moriarty looks down at the small mirror in his hand where he can see the face of Irene Adler, smirking at him. He has a lot to think about when he goes back to the manor.

"You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock," he says instead.

Moriarty starts to step away so Sherlock raises his aim to point the wand at Moriarty, suspicious and uncaring with the fact that Moriarty's Death Eaters are pointing their wands at him and John.

He raises the mirror to his ear again as he walks away towards the edge of the Anti-Apparition Wards. "If you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes."

Moriarty snaps his fingers and his followers move away almost immediately towards the edge of the wards, the sound of multiple cracks that implicate multiple disapparition.

Once again, they are met with silence.

"What happened there?" John asks after calming his rapidly beating heart and unsteady breath.

"Someone changed his mind," Sherlock replies, looking at a distant and deep in thought. "Question is: who?" he asks himself.

* * *

 **CASTLE OF HOGWARTS**  
**September 01, 2010**  
**AT THE PRESENT MOMENT**

"Where the hell have you been?" asks John Watson.

The ex-Head Auror of the Auror Department is now working alongside Mary Morstan in the Hospital Wing of Hogwarts since he had been trained as a Healer whilst he was still a student. Besides being an Assistant Healer at Hogwarts, he is also the Flying Instructor for the First Years, as well as a co-professor in  _Defence Against the Dark Arts_ , specialising in muggle techniques in defence.

"Taking a stroll." Sherlock shrugs as he sits down beside John at the Head Table. "Did I miss everything?"

"Nope... You're just in time for the sorting," John replies.

Sherlock grumbles. "I was hoping I'd miss it." He huffs. "I can't stand the sorting. We just sit here and wait for a dirty old hat to yell a name and pretend to clap as if _oh it's the most wonderful thing in the world!_ " he says, raising his pitch higher at the last part to emphasise his hatred of the event.

"You're one to talk... There I was, a mere Fourth Year, and a little 11-year-old wearing the sorting hat and spending nearly half an hour under the said hat. Hatstall, Sherlock. You made a record." [1][2]

"Stop talking about me as a little 11-year-old."

"But you were! You were such a small thing! Smaller than me, too, oh, to be taller than you... with your chubby cheeks and squeaky little voice—"

John tries to stop himself from giggling when Professor Sally Donovan, the Deputy Headmistress and Professor of Transfiguration, gives them a warning look whilst another child is wearing the sorting hat.

John still continues to snigger at Sherlock.

"You better stop laughing unless, hypothetically, I might force a de-aging potion down your throat just to make you see who's  _little_. That is, of course, hypothetical—definitely hypothetical."

"Hypothetically, you wouldn't even have a de-aging potion," John replies.

"Hypothetically, I can ask Molly to brew me one."

"Hypothetically, I can tell Molly not to do that and she would probably be too busy teaching Potions."

"I can brew it myself. That's not hypothetical. We both know I'm good at Potions."

"But we both know how impatient you are when it comes to _hypothetically_ pranking me."

"Who said anything about pranking? Hypothetically? I was talking about how I would hypothetically make you drink it through sheer force... hypothetically."

"And, hypothetically, if you do try that, I'll tell you now that I was Head Auror for the Ministry of Magic. Before Harry, I was the youngest Head Auror ever, being in position at age 27."

"Yes, you, a 32-year-old, made a 26-year-old a Head Auror."

"I gave my position to the Defeater of the Dark Lord. The only one I would deem capable of replacing me and whom I'd trust to be as remotely as good as I am in the department would be the person who rid the Wizard Society of Voldemort."

"I can be worse than Voldemort, you know."

John looks at Sherlock for a moment before shaking his head. "Nahhh... you don't have it in you."

" _Excuse_ me?" Sherlock asks, offended.

"No, I'd think you're too much in love with your cheekbones to actually sacrifice it to be a dark lord like Voldemort," John replies.

Sherlock suddenly snorts. "The Lord of Noselessness."

"Harry told me he nearly said that to Voldemort at the Last Battle," John says, chuckling to himself.

"He should have. Voldemort would have been surprised that someone would actually make a pathetic comment in the midst of war. Then he'd be furious beyond relief. His focus would have wavered."

"Still, things ended well. It doesn't matter now. The war's over," John replies with a shrug. Sherlock hums.

When the last student was sorted, Sherlock lets out a loud, "Finally!" which elicited a few giggles from the female department, and glares from the whole school staff—especially from John, Sally, Greg, and Molly.

After Lestrade, ex-Ministry official and the youngest headmaster of Hogwarts at the age of 42, tells the students to start eating after the quick announcements, he casts  _Muffliato_ between the staff and the students so no students would hear their conversation.

Lestrade turns to Sherlock immediately. "So, any news on Moriarty?"

Some of the professors cringe at the name, not because they fear him like they did with Voldemort... Well, they  _do_ fear Moriarty... but they cringe because of the destruction the rising dark lord had caused in the past year. They cringe at his monstrous activities and his psychopathy.

A lot of muggles and wizards would have died last year if Sherlock, with the help of the other professors, had not solved all of the runes, secrets, ancient spells, and mysterious deaths from the Wizard and Muggle Society under Moriarty's puppeteer hands.

"Nothing yet. Mycroft believes that he's lying low for a while," Sherlock replies.

"Why should we trust the Minister's guesses?" Donovan asks.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the mention of Mycroft's title as the Minister of Magic, but he answers anyway. "Unlike previous ministers, Mycroft is not an idiot and he makes sure that the nation won't fall down on its knees."

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said about Mycroft," John comments behind Sherlock, whispering.

Sherlock scoffs. "I only say what I need to say to get what I want... which is for Sally to shut up," he whispers back.

"Spoken like a true Slytherin."

"I'm a Ravenclaw, John."

"May I remind you _again_ that you argued with the sorting hat for nearly half an hour because it wanted to place you in GryffinClawPuffErin?" [3]

"Shut up, John."

"So," Mary Morstan, the School Matron, butts in, breaking their small banter, "we'll just have to wait, then?"

Sherlock answers seriously. "I suppose he _is_ planning something."

"Planning what?" Rubeus Hagrid, the Care of Magical Creatures Professor, asks impatiently.

"Moriarty—he doesn't want war... not like the previous wars, at least."

"Stop talking in riddles, already." Philip Anderson, the Arithmancy Professor, sighs impatiently. 

Sherlock sighs. "Moriarty doesn't want power and glory. No, this man is a child and he wants to play. This man is discrete in his work. He's not Voldemort—he doesn't want attention, at least, not to instill fear for fear's sake. He doesn't want to rule over the Wizard Society. He's hiding in the shadows. We never even knew his name before Jeff Hope was under my mercy."

Lestrade and John share a look at the mention of Jeff Hope—the serial-killing cab driver whose case had brought them all together.

"We need to be on the lookout for him."

"What does he want?" Martha Hudson, the Herbology Professor, asks.

"Entertainment," Molly Hooper, the Potions Professor, speaks up. "I still can't believe I dated that monster."

Mary places a hand on her shoulder in sympathy before saying, "Well, you did force him to watch the _Weird Sisters_ with you. I mean, the dark lord, watching a concert, smiling and partying... Pretty evil of you, if you ask me." She laughs, making Molly laugh with her.

"Anyway, Molly is right," Sherlock interrupts. "Moriarty hates being bored... He's been a single player in this giant game of chess... until he met me."

"Which makes the situation even more dangerous, since he's starting to move across the chess board," Lestrade adds with a nods.

* * *

  **BOHEMIA, WILTSHIRE [4]**  
**September 14, 2010**  
**THIRTEEN DAYS LATER**

"James Moriarty," she whispers to activate the mirror. Seeing only a shadow of the man, she raises the mirror to her ear. "Hello."

" _I assume you've seen the papers?_ "

"I think it's time, don't you?"

" _You know what to do._ "

* * *

 **GROUNDS AT HOGWARTS**  
**September 14, 2010**  
**ABOUT TWO HOURS LATER**

John Watson is hovering a few feet above the ground on his broomstick, watching as the First Years try their best to stay on their brooms, flying, whilst he barks out some encouragements and advises to stay above the ground.

"All right, everyone. Land!" he yells loudly and everyone does so. As the students stand up in front of him, John lands smoothly on the ground. "All right, initial comments: you all seem to—"

"Professor Watson?" a man behind him asks.

John doesn't even flinch at the voice since he had heard someone walking behind him—perks of Auror Training.

"Er, yes?" he asks, not really paying attention since—"Don't hit each other with the brooms!"

"It's for you," the man says.

"Oh, okay, thanks," he replies, holding his palm out behind him for a probable potion, book, note, or something.

"No, sir, the helicopter."

That takes John's full attention when a helicopter makes its way in the field. The students look at it in awe, especially those who are more familiar with muggle technology. Some of those who aren't familiar are slightly afraid of the large metal contraption that has the ability to fly.

"Class dismissed," he yells at the student after casting the Sonorus charm on himself so he could be heard despite the loudness of the helicopter. 

The students huddle together and whisper about the strange arrival of the Muggle Transportation.

"Don't worry, sir, we already alerted the headmaster that you'll be involved in an important meeting."

"I have to tell my girlfriend I'm leaving first. I have a duty in the Hospital Wing, and she—"

"—has also been informed, sir."

"Right," he says just as the helicopter lands, "and how exactly did you bring a helicopter to Hogwarts? I thought Muggle inventions still have a hard time working near wizards, much less a whole castle filled with them."

The man answers, "It runs through magic, sir."

"How?"

"Special condition, sir. Can't say."

"Right..."

John finally reaches the helicopter and grins to himself. Growing up as a muggle, one of his childhood dreams was getting to ride a helicopter. After finding out that he was, in fact, a Half-Blood, with the other half of his DNA being connected to wizardry, he still kept his own muggle traditions.

He grins as he gets to ride the helicopter. He watches as the view to Hogwarts disappears.

* * *

 **THE THREE BROOMSTICKS  
****September 14, 2010**  
**ABOUT TWO HOURS LATER**

Even though it is a Tuesday, Sherlock has his day-off since this is the day when John would be lecturing his class more on muggle techniques of defence. They won't be starting practical lessons until Thursday and since John is better at explaining the techniques, he decided to just leave John alone with the class.

He goes back to his usual room in the Three Broomsticks Inn. Madam Rosmerta had kindly kept his usual room—Room 221B (which is one of the largest room upstairs)—unoccupied. This is where he usually keeps to himself, hence the lack of clothing, with the exception of Madam Rosmerta since he'd grown fond of the landlady.

Whilst he reads the records and accounts of the landlord in the Leaky Cauldron for another case, which he solves in a few minutes with a satisfactory grin on his face. He starts to dread that he has nothing to count as an excuse on why he hasn't started on grading his students' pre-test essays on Defence.

That is, until, Madam Rosmerta herself knocks and enters the room with two wizards dressed in a muggle suit following behind her.

"Sherlock! I've been calling out for you!" Madam Rosmerta says just as Sherlock turns his head around from his position by the desk to look at her.

"His room's through there," one of the men says, pointing at one of three other doors. "Get him some clothes."

"Who the hell are you?" he asks.

"Sorry, Professor Holmes. You're coming with us," he replies.

The man grabs the records from his hand and takes his wand to clean everything up on Sherlock's desk.

At the face of forced subordination, Sherlock sulks and turns back around to face outdoors, staring at his now clean desk.

The other man had entered, placing a pile of clothes and a pair of shoes on the desk in front of him. At the act, Sherlock raises his eyebrows and shrugs disinterestedly.

"Please, Professor Holmes. Where you're going, you'll want to be dressed."

Sherlock turns his head to look at the man before deducing Merlin's pants out of him.

 _Suit £700_  
_Unarmed_  
_Manicured_  
_Office worker_  
_Right handed_  
_Slytherin_  
_Indoor worker_  
_~~Small dog~~_  
_~~Two small dogs~~_  
_Three small dogs_

Smirking at his deductions, he looks up at the two men in defiance.

"Oh, I know _exactly_ where I'm going."

* * *

 **BUCKINGHAM PALACE  
September 14, 2010**  
**A FEW MINUTES LATER**

' _What the hell? What do they want from someone like me?_ ' John thinks.

Before he enters the Palace, he is told to change to muggle clothes by giving him the clothes he already owns (how the hell they got his clothes, he will never know). Entering in a plaid shirt, jeans, and a black jacket, he looks around in awe whilst he is directed at another room.

It may not be a Wizard's Castle like Hogwarts, but he sure hell has always wanted to be in Buckingham Palace since he was a kid... and to be summoned here. Well, his inner childishness is jumping for joy.

Much to his surprise, he sees Sherlock on the couch wearing only a bed sheet.

John gives him a small shrug to ask, ' _What the fuck is going on?_ '

Sherlock shrugs, and so John nods at the answer before sitting beside him. The two professors fall silent with John feeling quite amused at the situation.

He glances at Sherlock again and realises something. "Wearing any pants?"

"Hmm, no."

"Okay."

Slowly, the two professors glance at each other before laughing uncontrollably.

Barely composing himself, John starts. "We're in Buckingham Palace... Right... Oh... Oh, I am seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray."

They start giggling again.

Two well-known professors at Hogwarts, two well-known puzzle solvers, two well-known fighters of the Second Wizarding War, two well-known saviours of the Wizard Society... giggling about an ashtray. 

"What are we doing here, Sherlock?" John asks, still smiling. "No, seriously, what?"

"I don't know."

"Here to see the Queen?" John jokes.

Mycroft enters.

Sherlock hums. "Oh, apparently, yes..." John turns to look and sees Mycroft.

Both of them howl in laughter once more.

Mycroft clenches his jaw and stares at them. "Just once, you can you two behave like grown-ups?"

"He solves things, I write about it, and he forgets his pants. So, I wouldn't hold out too much hope."

"I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft."

"What? The muggle at the Leaky Cauldron? I glanced at the landlord's record. Bit obvious, surely?"

"Transparent."

"Time to move on, then..." Mycroft holds Sherlock's clothes in front of the man in question. "We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British Nation. Sherlock Holmes, _put_ your  _trousers_ on."

"What for?" Sherlock asks, shrugging disinterestedly.

"Your client."

Sherlock stands up to his full height. "And my client is?"

"Illustrious," a man suddenly says, entering the room, "in the extreme, and remaining—I have to inform you—entirely anonymous."

Sherlock looks at the man who does not own a phone in his pockets, and he can make out the shape of a wand holster on his arm. Wizard, then.

"Harry," Mycroft greets, "may I just apologise for the state of my little brother?"

"Full-time occupation, I imagine," the equerry mocks as Mycroft suppresses his urge to roll his eyes, "and this must be Professor John Watson, formerly Head of the Auror Office. My employer is a tremendous fan of your books."

"Your employer?" John asks, looking at Mycroft who is the  _Minister of Magic_.

"My _muggle_ employer," the equerry corrects with a smile, "particularly enjoyed the _fiction_ about the Aluminium Crutch."

John nods his head in understanding. "Thank you." He looks at Sherlock pointedly.

"And Mister Holmes, the younger—"

"Professor," Sherlock corrects.

"—you look taller in your photographs."

"I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend." He turns to his brother. "Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients. I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much work. Good morning."

He walks away but Mycroft steps on his sheet in time which causes the sheet to fall, revealing Sherlock's upper body, and wand in the holster on his arm.

"This is a matter of national importance. _Grow up_!"

"Get off my sheet!"

"Or what?!"

"Or I'll just walk away."

"I'll let you."

"Boys," John scolds, "please, not here."

"Who—is—my— _client_?!"

"Take a look at where you're standing and make a deduction: You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now, _for Merlin's sake_...  _Put your clothes on_!"

Sherlock sucks in a breath and a few moments later, is now sitting beside John, fully dressed as Mycroft pours tea.

"I'll be mother," Mycroft says.

"And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell," Sherlock comments, making Mycroft glare.

"My employer has a problem," the equerry starts.

"A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature, and in this hour of need, _dear brother_ , your name has risen."

"Why? Your employer is a muggle. You have a police force of sorts, even a marginally Secret Service. Why come to me?"

"People do come to you for help, don't they, Professor Holmes?"

"Not, to date, anyone with a Navy."

"This is a matter of highest security and, therefore, of trust," Mycroft intervenes.

"You don't trust your own secret service?" John asks.

"Naturally not. They all spy on people for money," Mycroft answers.

John smiles, knowing that all those years ago, the second night he met Sherlock, when he was first kidnapped by the Minister himself, he passed Mycroft's test of being trustworthy enough for Sherlock.

"I do think we have a timetable," the equerry sharply reminds Mycroft.

"Yes, of course..." Mycroft clears his throat and opens a briefcase to give one of the photographs to Sherlock. "What do you know about this woman?"

' _She is a beautiful woman,_ ' Sherlock admits, ' _with a face that a man might die for._ ' [5]

"Nothing whatsoever."

"Then you should be paying more attention."

"Why asks us wizards?" John interrupts.

"She's been at the centre of two muggle political scandals in the last year and ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants... _separately_. In the Wizard Society, she has traces of Veela in her, though is seen as a full one for she lures people into her own traps," Mycroft informs.

"You know I don't concern myself with trivia. Who is she?" Sherlock asks.

"Lady Irene Adler, a pureblood of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Adler, professionally known as The Woman."

"Professionally?" John asks.

"There are many names for what she does. She prefers _Dominatrix_."

"Dominatrix..." Sherlock whispers, staring at the photograph in his hands, intrigued.

"Don't be alarmed," Mycroft starts. "It's to do with sex."

"Sex doesn't alarm me," Sherlock snaps.

Mycroft snorts. "How would you know?" Sherlock leans back with his jaw clenched. "She provides—shall we say—recreational scolding for muggles and wizards who enjoy that sort of thing, and are prepared to pay for it. These are all from her profile and our research."

Sherlock was handed classy photographs of a half-naked Irene Adler, looking regal and dominating in her photographs. He looks at the photographs of their surveillance as well where she is seen holding her wand, wearing a black lace robe with her hair slightly disarray but still looking as elegant as her photographs.

He stares at a photograph of her in action—perfect wand-hand position; a photograph of her walking gracefully along a number of flats; a photograph of her wearing a pair of sunnies; and more photographs of her in lacy lingerie.

"And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs?" Sherlock asks.

"You're very quick, Professor Holmes."

"Hardly a difficult deduction. Photographs of _whom_?" Sherlock demands.

The equerry and Mycroft share a look before the former replies, "A person of significance to my employer. We'd prefer not to say any more at this time."

"You can't tell us anything?" John asks.

Mycroft clenches his jaw. "I can tell you that it's a young person—a young _female_ person." Mycroft sighs as the equerry flushes. Sherlock grins in triumph.

"How many photographs?" he asks.

Mycroft smiles sourly. "A considerable number, apparently."

"Do Lady Adler and this _young female_ person appear in these photographs together?"

"Yes, they do."

"And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios."

"An imaginative ranger, we are assured."

"John, you might want to put that cup back in your saucer now."

The equerry finally speaks up, "Can you help us, Professor Holmes?"

"How?"

"Will you take the case?"

"What case? Pay her, now and in full. As Lady Adler remarks in her masthead: _Know when you are beaten_ ," Sherlock moves to leave before Mycroft interrupts him.

"She doesn't want _anything_." Sherlock stops, staring at Mycroft in shock. "She got in touch. She informed us that the photographs existed. She indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favour."

Sherlock smirks. "Ooh, a _power play_ —a power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now, that _is_ a dominatrix," he says, impressed. "Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn't it?"

"Sherlock," John warns.

"Where is she?" Sherlock asks.

Mycroft starts, "Er, in London, currently, she's staying—"

"Owl me the details. I'll be in touch by the end of the day."

"Do you really think you'll have news by then?" the equerry asks.

"No, I think I'll have the photographs," Sherlock replies cockily.

"One can only hope you're as good as you seem to think," he challenges.

Sherlock takes the challenge and deduces him from head to toe.

 _Dog lover  
_ _Hufflepuff  
Full Wizard-blood_  
_Early rise_  
_Horse Rider_  
_Non-smoker_  
_Tea Drinker_  
_Ex-Ministry Official_

"I'll need some equipment, of course," Sherlock says abruptly.

Mycroft begins. "Anything you require, I'll have it sent to—"

"Can I have a box of matches?" Sherlock asks, opening his palm out to the equerry.

"You have a wand," Mycroft interrupts.

Sherlock ignores him. "Or a cigarette lighter? Either would do."

"I don't smoke," the equerry defends.

"No, I know _you_ don't, but your employer  _does_."

The equerry reaches into his pocket to hand over the lighter. "We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Professor Holmes."

"I'm not the Commonwealth."

"And that's as modest as he gets," John comments. "Pleasure to meet you."

As they walk away, Sherlock yells, "La'ers!" making Mycroft groan at the oncoming headache at having to talk to his irritating little brother once more.

* * *

 **CAB TO LEAKY CAULDRON**  
**September 14, 2010**  
**A FEW MINUTES LATER**

"What point were you trying to tell when you asked for the cigarette lighter?" John asks as they both ride a cab to go to the Leaky Cauldron and floo to Hogwarts.

"That I'm good as I seem to think," Sherlock mimics the equerry's tone.

John hums in understanding, sniggering before thinking back. "Okay, the smoking... How did you know?"

"The evidence was right under your nose, John. As ever, you see but you do not observe."

"Observe what?"

"Ashtray."

He shows John that he had stolen the ashtray and John laughs. They both start laughing and talking about the new and odd case of Lady Irene Adler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] It has always been said that John Watson is possibly three years older than Holmes. Since John and Mike went to Bart's together, I had them be in the same year, while Sherlock is three years younger.
> 
> [2] Hatstall: A witch or wizard who takes more than five minutes to be sorted.
> 
> [3] Sherlock prides himself with his intelligence which is why he was sorted in Ravenclaw. Plus I would think that Sherlock argued with the Sorting Hat because I would think he's a natural Occlumens and Leglimens.
> 
> Ravenclaw because Sherlock is bloody intelligent and he expands his knowledge and deletes those he thinks are not necessary. He is also incredibly talented with his musical abilities and he composes—creativity is one of Ravenclaw's house traits. He is open-minded and he and his mind are one. He is so curious with everything and always seeks the answer to any questions he thinks are interesting. He would rather avoid confrontation but would use his mind to solve it if he is in one. Sherlock is alright being by himself. Also he hates it if people ridicule him for what he thinks is possible (like Seb in The Blind Banker). Sherlock is analytical, think about everything and has opinions about anything, is open-minded, and values his inner world. Also he gets inside his head so much that sometimes he uses that to channel his boredom and loneliness.
> 
> Slytherin because well, he's a good manipulator and he's mysterious. He is also ambitious and determined to finish the job. He is sly and gets through things using excuses and sly words. He thinks before he acts most of the time which is a Slytherin trait. But he doesn't care what people think of him unlike in Slytherin which cares about reputation. Sherlock doesn't use connections for his own benefit but rather to solve cases. Sherlock doesn't use knowledge to achieve greatness but for knowledge's sake like in Ravenclaw.
> 
> Gryffindor because well he's brave, quick to defend his friends in a fiery way, hate being bored, and like being around his friends (though he doesn't admit it). He's also a magnet of danger. But unlike any other Gryffindor, Sherlock is not interested in being a hero or even acting like one even though there is an open secret that Sherlock has a hero-saving thing and that he is motivated by helping people stop their assaulters and whatever. Sherlock relies on his wits rather than his fists, unlike Gryffindors who are huge risk-takers for the greater good.
> 
> Hufflepuff because Sherlock cares deeply for people and secretly enjoy the company of others. Face it, we know Sherlock hates being lonely and feeling unloved. Sherlock is also fiercely loyal, intensely just, and horridly honest. He is also secretly (but everyone knows) thoughtful, kind, and incredibly caring and would not take lightly when someone hurts his friend. But Hufflepuffs are known to be tolerant and Sherlock cannot tolerate stupidity and ignorance. Hufflepuff is group-oriented and though Sherlock is good with his friends, he still likes to be alone at times.
> 
> [4] Perfect area for an Adler Manor.
> 
> [5] This was said in the Granada Series of Sherlock Holmes: A Scandal in Bohemia.


	2. The Meeting

Irene Adler smiles at the sight of her snowy white owl, Margaretha [1], who has a brown envelope attached to her leg with a red ribbon.

"Hello, sweetie. Had any troubles?" she asks.

The owl hoots at her fondly as she feeds her. Irene unties the envelope from her owl and sees the photographs of one Sherlock Holmes and one John Watson in a cab. She tilts her head in interest. So _this_ is Moriarty's treat for her...

"Kate," she calls out for her maid, "we're going to have a visitor. I'll need a bit of time to get ready."

"A long time?" Kate asks behind her.

" _Ages_."

* * *

John sits on the desk in Sherlock's room in the Leaky Cauldron, reading the Daily Prophet. Behind him, Sherlock is making a distracting racket and he had no choice but to ask.

"What are you doing?"

"Going into battle, John. I'll need the right armour," he says, wearing one of his Muggle clothes. "No."

* * *

Irene Adler looks at herself in the mirror, wearing her black lace wizard robes that hugs her figure beautifully and shows off her back... but it doesn't seem right for the professor.

"Nah."

"Works for me," Kate comments.

"Everything works on you."

* * *

From the Leaky Cauldron, Sherlock and John take a cab to go to Irene Adler's place. John looks at the professor in confusion.

So, what's the plan?" John asks.

"We know her address."

"What? Just ring her doorbell?"

"Exactly. Just here please," he tells the cabbie and the can stops. Sherlock walks out, leaving John to pay again.

"You didn't even change your clothes!"

"Then it's time to add a splash of colour."

"Why didn't you just use Polyjuice Potion?" John asks as they walk. "I'm sure Molly has one stored."

"Polyjuice Potion is boring and the unravelling of identity is much more obvious when it wears off. The effect takes little time."

"Are we here?" John asks instead, not bothering to argue with Sherlock.

"Two streets away but this'll do."

"For what?"

"Hex me in the face."

* * *

"Shade?"

"Blood."

* * *

" _Hex_ you?" John asks.

"Yes, hex me, _in the face_ , preferably the Conjunctivitis Curse [2], didn't you hear me?"

"I always hear, 'Hex me in the face,' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext."

"Oh for Merlin's sake—" Sherlock grabs his wand and points it at John—" _Titillando_." [3]

John, in his years as Head of the Auror Office, manages to dodge from the spell instinctively. Sherlock prepares his face for an incoming curse. In John's anger, and to Sherlock's surprise, he feels John's fist connect with his face.

"Ow!" he exclaims. He sees John looking at his own knuckles in pain. "Certainly not what I was expecting but thank you," he tells John, "thank you, that was—" He was cut off by John jumping on him.

"You bastard!" he yells, strangling Sherlock. "A hex! A bloody hex!"

"Okay, I think we're done now, John," he tries to make.

Sherlock may be taller than the two but John is stronger than he is. He'd have to be since he was a Beater in the Gryffindor Quidditch Team at Hogwarts.

"You wanna remember, Sherlock, I was an Auror. I killed people," John says through gritted teeth.

"You were a Healer!"

"I had bad days!"

* * *

"What are you gonna wear?" Kate asks her as she continues with Irene's make-up.

"My battledress," Irene replies, smirking.

"Ooh, lucky boy."

Just then, they hear the doorbell ring, and the two women look at each other knowingly.

"Get the door for me, will you?"

"It's him, isn't it?"

"Of course." She smirks.

"Where are you going to place your wand?" Kate asks.

Irene smirks devilishly. "I won't need it."

* * *

"Where is he?" Irene asks, placing the last pin on her hair as Kate enters the room.

"Downstairs. Claimed that he was attacked by some muggles," Kate chuckles. "It was entertaining, I tell you."

"Shame I wasn't able to lead them in. Almost done, dear. What do you think?" Irene asks, showing off her hair to Kate.

"Couldn't tell you're a Death Eater," Kate replies.

"Oh please, I was never a follower of Moriarty's... and why do they even call them Death Eaters?"

"Guess people grew accustomed to dark wizards calling their followers Death Eaters because of Tom Riddle."

"Of course. Alright, I guess I'm done."

"Go get that professor, Miss Adler."

"Oh I will."

* * *

"Hello, sorry to hear that you've been hurt. I didn't think Kate caught your name," Sherlock hears a disembodied voice say. He quickly reacts as if he was a mere muggle who was just under attack.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm—"

Sherlock Holmes, a man who is rarely surprised, has his jaws drop at the sight of a completely naked Irene Adler. Her skin is flawless. Beautiful. Mycroft was right—she practically _is_ a Veela. Maybe she's part-Veela? But it's not the physical beauty that attracts him to her. It's the power play—the confidence; the boldness and audacity; the full trust in herself. She believes herself able to take him down.

She stands in front of him and grabs the white dog collar from his shirt collar which he used since he had to pretend that he is a weak muggle vicar. He leans back on the sofa, barely saying a word in surprise, and so he would be able to look at her in the eye. Sherlock will not be bothered by the presence of an alive naked woman—a woman completely undressed that is not a corpse—an actual human woman presenting herself naked in front of him. No, sir. He will not be bothered.

...Merlin, he hopes that she isn't using Legilimency on him right now. The things she might see in his mind.

"We're both defrocked—" she smirks down at him—"Professor Sherlock Holmes," she caresses his name.

"Lady Adler—" he uses his lowest voice—contrast to his voice earlier. If it is power play she wants, it is power play she gets. May the best seducer wins—"I presume."

"Oh look at those cheekbones—" she tilts her head—"I could cut myself slapping that face." ' _So would I_ ,' his mind says and he shuts it up with his Occlumency. "Would you like me to try?"

She narrows her eyes at him while he simply watches in fascination at how she is completely confident that she can snap him in two. Her way of intimidation and dominance cannot compare to a Veela's stare. Even full-blooded Veelas have no effect on him like this.

"Right, this should do it," John interrupts, entering the room.

Sherlock and Irene both look at the sudden interruption. He can imagine what they look like. One is on the couch being straddled; one is standing in front of the other with a vicar's collar between her teeth, naked.

"I missed something, haven't I?"

Irene gracefully and slowly removes the collar from between her teeth and eyes John up and down. Sherlock watches her the whole time, standing there as if she isn't completely nude. She moves as if there is nothing different about her—moves and smirks, knowing how uncomfortable and confused she is making other people feel.

"Please. Sit down. Oh, if you'd like some tea, I can call the maid."

"I had some at the Palace," Sherlock replies, trying to sound indifferent.

"I know," she caresses the words, sitting down on one of the armchairs and stares at him.

"Clearly," he replies.

They stare at each other. The last thing he hears is John's words, "I had tea, too, in the palace, if anyone's interested."

His eyebrows knit together as he focuses on trying to perform a wandless Legilimency on her but she quickly blocks him from her mind. She raises her brow after he was pushed away, as if telling him, ' _Are you really going to try that?_ '

Using his non-wizard method, he tries deducing her but he doesn't come up with anything. Slightly feeling that someone may or may not have done something to him that is making him feel stupider than he is, he goes to look and deduce John.

 _Own muggle clothes  
__Given by Mycroft's people_  
_Teaching hours ago_  
_Date with Mary tonight_  
_Wand in right coat pocket_  
_Hasn't contacted sister_  
 _New toothbrush_  
 _Night out planning the year_

Knowing that he's still fully functioning, at least, mentally, he looks at her once more but finds that he can only come up with nothing at all. He notices Lady Adler's smirk grow every time he looks at her. He frowns when he accepts that she cannot be deduced by him. What would Mycroft say?

"D'you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr Holmes?" Irene asks. Sherlock merely raises his brows in question. "However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait."

"You think I'm a vicar with a bleeding face?'

"I think you're damaged, delusional, and believe in higher power—in your case, it's yourself," Irene comments.

' _Hmm, quite knowledgeable about muggles as well,_ ' he analyses. Sherlock glares at her as he tries to unbutton some of the buttons on his shirt. He always wears muggle clothing, finding the clothing more convenient and helpful when running after Death Eaters than wizard floor-length robes. Though in Hogwarts, he wears wizard robes over his Muggle clothes as to not be seen as too odd by the students. He hates whisperings in his classes.

"Somebody loves you," Irene says, leaning forward. "Why, if I had to punch _that_ face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth, too."

John laughs humourlessly. "Could you put something on, please? Anything at all? A napkin?"

"Why? Are you feeling exposed?" she asks in a low voice.

"I don't think John knows where to look," Sherlock comments, standing up and grabbing his coat which he had transfigured back to its original form—his black wizard robes.

"No, I think he knows _exactly_ where," she says, standing in front of John. John composes himself and wills himself not to look down at this Veela-like woman. "Not sure about you."

"If I wanted to look at naked women, I'd ask to use Legilimency on John."

"You do use Legilimency on me."

"I'm just making sure."

"Well, never mind, we've got better things to talk about," Irene says, wearing Sherlock's robes, "now, tell me. I need to know: how was it done?" she asks.

"What?" he asks.

"The muggle with the stabbed back. How was he killed?"

"That's not why I'm here," he asks stupidly, completely surprised at her request for his case this morning.

"No no no, you're here for the photographs, but that's never gonna happen, and since we're here just chatting anyway..."

"That story's not been on the news yet, how do you know about it?"

"I know one of the Aurors. Well, I know what he likes."

"Oh... and you like Aurors?"

"I like mystery stories—and solvers. Brainy's the new sexy."

"Positionoftheknife," Sherlock rambles and both participants with him look at him in confusion and surprise, "er, position of the knife relative to the muggle at the time of the backfire—that and the fact that the death blow was at the middle of the spine. That's all you need to know."

"Okay, tell me: how was he murdered?"

"He wasn't."

"You don't think it was murder?"

"I know it wasn't."

"How?"

"Same way that I know that the victim does excellent circus acts, recently has paranoia and trust issues, and that the photographs I'm looking for are in this room."

"Okay, but how?"

"So, they _are_ in this room, thank you." Irene looks at him in awe. "John, man the door. Let no one in."

John smirks and goes out of the room and takes out his wand, grabbing a trash bin. Inside, Sherlock paces across the room, finding his dominance back in the game.

"Two men along in the Leaky Cauldron, several feet apart, and several knives..."

"Oh, I thought we're looking for the photos now."

"No. _No_. Looking takes ages, I'm just going to find them but you're moderately clever and we've got a moment so let's pass the time." He turns to look at her. "Two men, several knives, nobody else... Wizard enters the Leaky Cauldron, wanting a room... and the muggle takes a moment, following the man, and cleaning his things? Any moment now, something's going to happen, what?"

"The muggle's going to die."

"No, that's the result. What's going to _happen_?"

"I don't understand."

"Oh, well _try to_."

"Why?"

"Because you cater to the whims of the pathetic and take your clothes off to make an impression. Stop boring me and _think_. It's the _new sexy_."

"A car's going to backfire."

"There's going to be a loud noise."

"So what?"

"Oh noises are important. Noises, can tell you everything. For instance..."

He looks at her, and then hears a loud explosion. Prior to it, John threw the trash bin and silently casted _Reducto_ at it mid-air which made a loud enough explosion. Irene accidentally looks at the mirror on the fireplace in panic.

"Thank you," Sherlock says, "upon realising danger, a mother would look towards her child. Amazing how fire exposes our priorities." With a wave of his wand, the mirror vanishes which reveals a muggle safe underneath. "Really hope you don't have a baby in here."

Outside, a muggle with a gun points at John a second after John hid his wand in his pockets. Meanwhile, Sherlock uses his want to detect several Charms on the safe and realises that the only safe option to open the said safe is the muggle way—opening the safe with a passcode.

"Hmm, should always use gloves with these things, you know?" Sherlock comments. "Heaviest oil deposit is always on the first key used, that's quite clearly a 3, but after that the sequence is almost impossible to read. I say for the make that it's a six-digit code. Can't be your birthday, no disrespect but clearly you were born in the 80's. The 8's barely used so—"

"I'd tell you the code right now. You know what? I already have..." Sherlock looks at her in confusion. " _Think_ ," she whispers pointedly.

Just then, John and some men in suits enter the room.

"Hands behind your heads. On the floor. Keep it still," Neilson says.

"Sorry, Sherlock," John says.

"Lady Adler, on the floor."

"Don't you want me on the floor, too?" he asks boldly.

"No, sir, I want you to open the safe."

"American. Interesting. Why would you care?"

"So the safe, now. Please."

"I don't know the code."

"We've been listening. She said she told you."

"Well, if you've been listening, you'd know she didn't."

"I'm assuming I missed something. From your reputation, I'm assuming you didn't, Professor Holmes."

"For God's sake [4], she's the one who knows the code, ask _her_."

"Yes, sir, she also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets of the burglar alarm, I've learned not to trust this one."

"Professor Holmes doesn't-"

" _Shut up,_ " Neilson interrupts. Sherlock and Irene look at each other. "One more word out of you—just one—and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That, for me, will not be hardship. Mister Archer, on the count of three, shoot Sir John Watson."

"What?!"

"I don't know the code."

"One."

"I don't know the code."

"Two."

"She didn't tell me. I DON'T KNOW IT!"

"I'm prepared to believe you any second now..."

Irene looks at him pointedly, and looks down at her state of clothes. His eyes quickly widen in understanding.

"Three... Two..."

"No! Stop!" Thinking hard, he tries to remember the shape of her body when she entered the room and tries to guess correctly.

_**3—2—2—4—3—4** _

The safe clicks open and he sighs in relief.

"Thank you, Professor Holmes, open it, please."

When he turns the handle, he looks at Irene for a moment, and in response, Irene tilts her head away to the side. With that, she had answered what he had asked, and he immediately understands what she's trying to say.

"Vatican Cameos!"

And they spring into action when they hear the silenced gun do its shot. Instead of grabbing his wand, he grabs Neilson's gun and slams his head with it. He turns around in time to see Irene pointing a gun to the one who held her down.

"Do you mind?"

"Not at all," and she slams the gun to the man's face. Sherlock quickly goes back to the safe and grabs what's hidden there—a small box.

"He's dead," John announces, pointing at Mr Archer.

"Thank you," Irene says, smiling, "you were very... _observant_."

"Observant?" John asks.

"I'm flattered." She smiles.

"Don't be," Sherlock replies in a low vibrating voice.

" _Flattered_?"

Sherlock decides to ignore John's confusion. "There'll be more of them. They'll be keeping an eye on the building."

Sherlock and John goes outside and Irene looks inside the empty safe, slightly panicking knowing that Sherlock Holmes took her most valued possession.

Outside.

"Sherlock, put the gun down! Do you even know how to hold a gun?"

"Of course, John."

"We should call the police."

"Yes," and he starts firing five gun shots in the air. "On the way."

"For God's sake!" [4]

"Shut up, it's quick! Muggles react strongly to loud noises... Quite fascinating, really." When they enter, John following him, he orders him, "Check the rest of the house, see how they got in." Sherlock, once more, enters the room where Irene moves away from the empty safe, and is now looking at him. "Well, that's a knighthood in the bag," he comments, tossing the small Pandora-like's box in his hand— _Irene's Adler's Pandora's box_.

"Ahhh, and that's mine," Irene comments, holding her palm out.

Sherlock checks to see that there would be a code. He is actually surprised that the woman is not using Blood Magic to seal this small box full of information. Though using blood every time to open the box might be a bit too bothersome for Lady Adler. He applauds wizards and witches who get ideas from muggle technology.

"You used _Diminuendo_ [5] to shrink the contents of this box, and casted the same charm on the box... Hmm... All the photographs are in here, I presume."

"I have copies, of course."

"No, you don't. You'll have permanently disabled any kind of uplink or connection. Unless the content of this box are probably unique, you wouldn't be able to sell them."

She lowers her hand. "Who said I'm selling?"

"Well, why would they be interested?" Sherlock asks, looking at the unconscious bodies on the floor. "Whatever's in the box, it's clearly not just photographs."

"That box is my life, Professor Holmes. I'd die before I let you take it." Irene walks closer to him and holds out her hand again demandingly. "It's my protection."

"Sherlock!" they hear John yell.

"It was," Sherlock says, pulling the phone back and leaving.

Irene follows him to the bedroom where John is checking the pulse of the maid. He stands up and goes to the en suite bathroom and checks the window. Sherlock and Irene both enter the bedroom.

"Must have come in this way," John tells them.

"Clearly," Sherlock replies.

"It's all right. She's just out cold," John reassures Irene as he crouches down, about to wake her with _Rennervate_. [6]

"Well, Merlin knows she's used to that. Leave her. Let her have her beauty rest. There's a back door. Better check it, Sir Watson," Irene says.

John looks down at the unconscious woman and then at Irene, and then at Sherlock's nod. "Sure," and he leaves the room.

"You're very calm," Sherlock says quietly. They both turn to look at each other. "Well, your muggle booby trap _did_ just kill a man."

"He would have killed me," she replies, moving closer towards Sherlock. "It was self-defence in advance." She moves her hand on his arm which he follows with his gaze. Just then, she stabs the syringe filled with a greenish potion—the Weakness Potion [7] on his other arm.

"What? What is that? What—?"

Irene, then, slaps him in the face. The muggle method seems to be much more satisfying to her. "Give it to me, now. Give it to me," she commands, holding out her hand.

"No."

"Give it to me."

"No."

"Oh, for goodness's sake—" from her dressing table, she grabs her wand and points it at him—"drop it."

When Sherlock still doesn't remove the small box from his hand, Irene takes matters into her own hands and wordlessly casts the Whip Spell [8] on her wand.

She hits Sherlock with every word. "I... said...  _drop it_..."

Irene purposefully hits Sherlock extremely hard at the last one, and successfully, he falls down on the ground, dropping the box because of his weakness.

"Ahhh, thank you dear." She picks up the box and opens it, looking inside. "Now, tell that sweet little posh thing the pictures are safe with me. They're not for blackmail... Just for insurance. Besides—" she pockets the box in Sherlock's robes—"I might want to see her again." Sherlock tries to resist the effects of the Weakness Potion but fails miserably. "Oh no no no no no no—" she pushes him down, crouching down near him, pinning him down with merely a wand to the face—"it's been a _pleasure_. Don't spoil it."

Irene gently strokes her wand against Sherlock's face. She sees Sherlock slowly and subconsciously lean in to the touch.

"This is how I want you to remember me: the woman who beat you... Goodnight, Professor Sherlock Holmes." Irene heads to the bathroom and sits by the window sill.

"Jesus, what are you doing?" John asks when he enters.

"He'll be weak for a few hours. Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit, it makes for a very unattractive corpse."

John picks up the syringe from the floor. He looks at the content to know that a potion was used and not muggle drugs. "What's this? What have you given him? Sherlock!"

"He'll be fine. I've used it on loads of my friends."

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John asks, waving his wand on Sherlock, murmuring, " _Anapneo_ ," [9] just in case.

"You know, I was wrong about him... He _did_ know where to look."

John stands up and looks at her. "For what? What are you talking about?"

"The key code to my safe."

"What was it?" John asks.

Irene looks down at Sherlock who is looking at her, any moment now, she knows that he will be unconscious from the Weakness Potion. She did give him a smaller amount than normal to keep him more conscious than usual. It would be amusing to see him babble away.

"Shall I tell him?" she asks him with a smirk.

John looks down at Sherlock for a moment, then at Irene. They hear sirens at the back, knowing that the police has now arrived.

Irene smirks. "My measurements." Irene, then, pushes herself against the edge of the bath and falls backward out of the window.

John looks down to see Irene falling and casting, " _Arresto Momentum_ ," [10] in almost a whisper and without the use of her wand. She looks back at John and winks before disapparating.

Sherlock, then, falls into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Margaretha Zelle, known as Mata Hari. An exotic dancer and spy. Seduces agents to uncover top-secret information.
> 
> [2] The Conjunctivitis Curse causes irritation to the target's eyes.
> 
> [3] Titillando is also known as the tickling hex.
> 
> [4] The reason why John says "For God's sake" instead of "For Merlin's sake" is because he is Muggle-raised and a half-blood in my story—hence his fascination with Muggles and knowledge of both Muggle and Wizard stuff.
> 
> [5] Diminuendo is used to shrink objects.
> 
> [6] Rennervate is also known as the Reviving Spell. It is a charm that awakens whoever the caster's wand is pointed at.
> 
> [7] The Weakness Potions weakens the drinker mentally and physically.
> 
> [8] The Whip Spell is often used by Bellatrix. It elongates the tip of the wand until it looks like a whip.
> 
> [9] Anapneo is a spell that clears the throat of a choking victim.
> 
> [10] Arresto Momentum slows down or stops the target from falling.


	3. The Exhilarating

Sherlock's eyes open and he looks around confusedly, trying desperately to keep his eyes open, blinking too much, and then failing miserably.

"Got it," he hears.

Sherlock tries to get it in his head that he should move but then again, his mind is still too confused for sudden movement. Closing his eyes and concentrating to keep calm, he tries to remove the springing headache forming in his head with his Occlumency. When he opens them again, he sees the beautiful face of Lady Irene Adler, staring at him with a small smile on her face.

He sits up immediately, wanting to talk to her but she places a gently finger to his lips. "Oh, shush now. Don't get up. I'll do the talking."

He lays back on the bed as Lady Adler presses her thumbs to his forehead. He looks around. They're at the empty Leaky Cauldron at night. They are both sitting on one of the tables. They both look at each other briefly before Irene stands and goes by the window, looking outside.

"So, the muggle follows the wizard—" she starts.

On cue, the door to the Leaky Cauldron opens and a wizard comes in, as well as a muggle, holding a case.

"—and the muggle? Places his case on the table. Inside the said case are—"

The muggle goes by the table and opens his suitcase. There are clothes inside. Looking around to check if there are other people in the room, he opens the case's secret compartment and shows a couple of knives pointing towards him.

"—circus equipment... A knife thrower..." her soft voice continues.

The muggle places his hands on one of the knives and smiles to himself.

"Now, you said that there was a backfire, but there wasn't, was there? It was another kind of noisy thing. The crack echoes and the muggle turns to look—"

The muggle grabs one of the knives from his case in a panic and points it at the sudden commotion.

"—and sees a wizard apparate before his eyes. The wizard, in realisation, moved to grab his wand to obliviate the muggle—which was his big mistake."

The muggle, who had a knife in his hand, jumps violently at the sudden movement of the wizard, and throws himself backward, forgetting about his case full of knives, and is stabbed in the back by multiple knives. The man falls on the ground with the knives stuck on his back with the knives leaving the case. The movement causes the said case to close on its own. Blood floods the floor as the muggle breathes his last.

"By the time the wizard realised what has transpired, the muggle's already dead. What he doesn't do is inform the authorities, instead removed all evidence, and left."

The wizard uses his wand to vanish all the knives from the man's back and removes traces of his shoes on the unswept floor. The wizard, then, disapparates, unknowingly leaving last footprints of a man turning around on one spot - the movement obviously meaning a disapparition.

"An excellent circus-act, recently has paranoia and trust issues who is... a knife-throwing muggle. You got that from one look? Definitely the new sexy."

"I..." he blinks, the potion on him still in effect. "I..."

Sherlock, then, feels the comfort of his bed at Hogwarts once more. He sinks down onto the bed and a sheet is wrapped around him. He sees Irene remove her hands gently away from his forehead as he starts to close his eyes.

"Hush now..." Irene says, softly. "It's okay... I'm only returning your robe," she whispers.

He comes back into consciousness and finds himself alone on his bed, wrapped in a sheet. He lifts his head and body from the bed.

"John?" He shakes his head, clearing it from the effects of the Weakness Potion. "John?!"

Sherlock throws the sheet off and loses balance, then falls from the foot of the bed to the floor. John, who was given the permission to come to his private bedroom from Sherlock's calling, opens the door to the bedroom and comes in as he sits up.

"Hmm... Sleeping Draught affects you less," John comments. "You okay?"

"How did I get here?"

"Well, I suppose you don't remember much. You weren't making a lot of sense. Oh, I should warn you: I think Headmaster Lestrade saved a memory of you in a pensieve in his office."

Sherlock stands up, looking around. "Where is she?"

"Where's who?"

"The Woman— _that_ woman."

"What woman?"

" _THE_ Woman! The _Woman_ woman!"

"What? Irene Adler?" Sherlock nods in answer. "She got away. No one's seen her." Sherlock goes to see a bookshelf that is an inch away from its original position. "She wasn't here, Sherlock."

Turning abruptly, Sherlock drops to the floor once again. He drags himself across the room, looking under the bed, to his left and right, anywhere, trying hard to see if Lady Adler is still in the room. He looks around, looking at his shelves, his desks, everything, any clue on what she did in his room.

"What are you...? What? No no no no. Back to bed." John man-handles him back to his bed and covers him with the sheet once more. "You'll be fine in the morning. Just sleep..."

"Oooof course, I'll be fine. I am fine. I'm _absolutely_ fine."

"Yes, you're great. Now, I'll be next door if you need me."

"Why would I need you?"

"No reason at all."

John walks out of Sherlock's bedroom—which would be one of the few places where no one has gone in except John since he is Sherlock's doctor—shutting the door behind him, and goes to their intertwined quarters—a common room. Mary is sitting by the fire, waiting, and he goes to sit beside her.

"Sorry about that," he tells her.

"Sherlock in trouble again?" Mary smirks.

John smirks. "As usual... Come on," he tells her, patting her leg as he stands up. "Let's go grab a Butterbeer."

"Hardly appropriate for our age, John."

"No one's too old for Butterbeer."

The two smile at each other before leaving to go to Hogsmeade. Fortunately for both of them, no one seems to be in need of medical attention at the moment—except Sherlock, of course.

Inside, Sherlock closes his eyes once more, about to fall asleep when he hears it.

An orgasmic female sigh.

Sherlock opens his eyes in surprise and sits up, looking at his robe that is on the coatrack beside his door. He looks at it, knowing that it can only be there if Irene returned it. He gets out of bed and wobbly walks towards it, losing balance once but manages to compose himself. Finally, he gets to the coatrack and takes out the source of this sigh.

He grabs a sort of small notebook, which is about the size of his hand. He notices that it is magically hand-made. The cover is black leather that reminds him of the feel of her whip-transfigured wand on his head...

He opens the notebook and sees the words:

> _Till the next time, Professor Holmes._

It is written in a beautiful cursive penmanship and he knows Lady Irene Adler was the one who wrote it. _Amazing_. Sherlock has never seen this kind of wizard technology before. It's almost as if a phone is being invented for wizards. First is Moriarty's one-way mirror. Next is Lady Adler's small notebook.

Despite them being on the other side, he admires their work and the fact that they are bringing muggle technology in the Wizarding world with ease—something previous wizards were trying hard to do.

From his observations and admiration towards the other side, he is completely oblivious to the kiss-shaped lipstick on the side of his mouth.

* * *

Sherlock goes to the Great Hall for breakfast but rolls his eyes when he sees his brother standing by the high table, talking to the Headmaster and the other professors in a hushed tone. John is currently in a heated discussion with Mycroft. Sherlock can make out his name and the word "rest." He rolls his eyes.

Thankfully, only a few students are awake at the moment since it's Sunday and most of them are on the seats near the door—probably because it's too awkward to sit near the professors at their small number. The students all whisper on why on Earth the Minister of Magic is doing here.

Mycroft, predictably, walks towards Sherlock with a fake smile on his face. "Sherlock," Mycroft greets.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, not bothering to sit on the high table, and instead sits on the Ravenclaw table. Breakfast appears and John stands up from the high table and moves to sit with him as well, as he has always done since they met.

"What do you want?" Sherlock grumbles. He looks at John. "Where's Mary?"

"A bit busy," John answers, trying to conceal a laughter through coughing.

Mary is not in the Great Hall since she's too busy when, a few hours ago, as she was about to leave the hospital wing to go to John's private bedroom for a... _meeting_ , a sixth year used an Engorgio Charm on his manhood. John laughed like an idiot when Mary told him earlier why she didn't get to go to him last night.

"What of the photographs?" Mycroft asks. He stands on the opposite side of the table where the two are currently sitting.

"The photographs are perfectly safe," Sherlock replies.

"In the hands of a fugitive _sex-worker_."

Sherlock snaps, "She's not interested in blackmail. She wants... protection for some reason."

"Couldn't she have used the Fidelius Charm? Disillusion herself? Anything?" John asks.

"She'd want protection, not just magic. Magic can be counter-cursed... but power plays? Power plays have to be thought through. Pride is much more valuable to break—wizard or muggle," Sherlock answers, his mind remembering Irene Adler's smirk and audacity. He doesn't see Mycroft and John share a look. "I take it you've stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?"

"How can we do anything while she has the photographs? Our _hands_ are _tied_."

"She'd applaud your choice of words," Sherlock comments. John smirks as Mycroft sighs. "You see how this works: that box is her ' _get out of Azkaban free_ ' card. You have to leave her alone. Treat her like _royalty_ , Mycroft."

"Though... not the way she treats royalty." John smiles sarcastically and Mycroft smiles back humourlessly.

 _Ahhh_...

John's and Mycroft's eyes widen and they both frown at the sudden noise. Thankfully, the students are too busy being noisy themselves while the professors are talking amongst themselves.

"What was that?" John asks.

Sherlock tries to look innocent. "Text."

"Text? You're using a phone? _Inside Hogwarts_?" John asks.

"No."

"...Alright, never mind, but what was that noise?"

Sherlock leans sideways to get the notebook from his robe pockets. John and Mycroft both stare at Sherlock as he opens the notebook.

> _Good morning, Professor Holmes._

Sherlock closes his— _no,_ not _his_... Lady Adler's—notebook but places it beside his plate instead of putting it back in his pockets. He decides to change the topic before the two ask more questions about his inappropriate messages.

"Did you know there were other people after her too, Mycroft? Before you sent John and I in there? Muggle CIA-trained killers, at an excellent guess."

"Yeah, thanks for that, Mycroft." John smiles mockingly.

"It's a disgrace—" Professor Hudson says, giving Sherlock the Daily Prophet—"sending your little brother into danger like that. Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes."

"Oh, shut up, Professor Hudson."

"MYCROFT!" "OI!" Sherlock and John yells at the same time.

Everyone in the Great Hall falls silent and looks at the loud interruption The students look in surprise to see their professors yelling at the _Minister_ , for goodness' sake, and even daring to use the Minister's first name. Mycroft looks at the three in front of him and shifts uncomfortably.

"Apologies," Mycroft says, cringing.

"Thank you," Professor Hudson scolds, as she moves to walk towards the staff table.

"Though do, in fact, shut up," Sherlock adds.

 _Ahhh_...

Sherlock looks at the notebook once more, which grabs Professor Hudson's attention. "Ooh. It's a bit rude, that noise, isn't it?" Sherlock ignores her and looks at the newly written message.  

> _Feeling better?_

"There's nothing you can do and nothing she _will_ do as far as I can see," he says immediately before they have the courage to ask about the notebook.

"I can put maximum surveillance on her."

"Why bother? You can follow her tracks on the Daily Prophet. I believe her pen name is 'TheWhipHand'."

"Yes. Most amusing.. 'Scuse me," Mycroft says, looking up on the ceiling.

They see a ball of light blast through Hogwarts and Mycroft immediately places a Muffliato Charm between him and the light, and everyone. Sherlock watches him suspiciously as Mycroft listens to whatever the light was saying, while John looks back at him and down at the notebook on the table.

"What's that?" John asks.

"What's what?" Sherlock asks in return.

"That notebook? Haven't seen that before. Where did you get it?"

"Found it in my robe. It most likely has the Protean Charm [1] on it."

"And so it gives you messages?"

"Exactly." Sherlock nods and the two falls silent... until...

"Why does your notebook make that noise?"

"What noise?"

" _That_ noise—the one it just made."

"It emits a sound signal—it means I've got a message."

"Like a phone," John says, fascinated. Sherlock gestures in a way that means, ' _Yup. There you go._ ' Thinking, he adds. "That shouldn't be its usual noise."

"Well, somebody charmed the notebook and apparently, as a joke, personalised its sound signal noise."

"Hmm... So every time they write you—"

 _Ahhh_...

Sherlock pauses. "It would seem so."

"What was that?" Mary asks, sitting beside John. They share a quick kiss before Mary starts grabbing some food. John whispers to Mary and tells her what just transpired in the few minutes. Meanwhile, Sherlock looks at the notebook once more.

> _I'm fine since you didn't ask._

Sherlock puts down the notebook again and goes back to reading the Daily Prophet absentmindedly and trying hard to look innocent.

Just then, John finishes telling Mary everything and says, "I'm wondering who could have owned that notebook, because you found it in your robe, didn't you?"

Sherlock raises the newspaper to hide his face. "I'll leave you to your deductions."

John smiles teasingly. "I'm not stupid, you know."

"Where do you get that idea?" Sherlock asks, trying to sound innocent and his usual sarcastic self. Mary and John share a look and try to hide a laugh.

Mycroft, on the other hand, has to remove the Muffliato Charm to be able to use the Patronus Charm. Sherlock watches as Mycroft's patronus—a Leopard [2]—forms in front of Mycroft.

"Bond Air is go, that's decided. Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later," Mycroft tells his patronus and sets it off to send its message.

As Mycroft comes back to the trio, Sherlock looks at him. "What else does she have?" Sherlock asks. Mycroft simply raises his brows in question. "Irene Adler. The  _American_ muggles wouldn't be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There's more." Sherlock stands up and goes around the table to face Mycroft. "Much more." Mycroft simply stares at him as Sherlock walks closer. "Something's big coming, isn't it?" he whispers.

"Irene Adler... is no longer any concern of yours. From now on, you will stay out of this."

Narrowing his eyes, he challenges. "Oh, _will_ I?"

"Yes, Sherlock... you _will_." Sherlock shrugs in reply and sits back down beside John. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend."

Casting a charm to one of the violins on the side of the Great Hall, he says, "Do give her my love."

He makes the violin play, 'God Save the Queen,' as Mycroft leaves the Great Hall with a huff.

* * *

"Wizards are idiots," Sherlock tells the room of seventh years. The students immediately protest but Sherlock raises his hand in reply. They immediately shut up. " _Wizards are idiots_ ," he repeats with much more emphasis. "If I ask you—" he points at one of the students—"what to do when you're in a duel against another wizard, what would you do?"

"I'd curse him or her, sir," the Hufflepuff says with a strength and pride in her voice.

"What if that wizard disarms you?" Sherlock asks.

"Then I'm dead." She shrugs.

"WRONG!" Sherlock yells at the whole classroom. "You are not dead. You are _wandless_ ," he points out.

"Isn't that practically the same?" a Gryffindor boy asks.

"That right there!" Sherlock points at the boy. "That is precisely why wizards are idiots!" The Gryffindors start to protest. "Oh shut up! I did not say Gryffindors are stupid. I'm saying _all_ wizards are stupid."

"Even you?" a Ravenclaw girl asks.

"All wizards except those who are actually smart enough to be what is convenient."

They listen to Professor Holmes intently when they realise that the professor is not just saying that only _he_ is not stupid. He said _wizards_ who _practice_ something.

"Be like what, exactly?" a Slytherin girl asks.

"Muggles."

"But what can muggles do against a wizard?" a Gryffindor girl asks.

"Yes! Yes! Exactly!" Sherlock yells triumphantly. The students look at him in question, clearly not understanding what he is trying to say. "Oh, look at you, children," he says genuinely in awe, "you're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be _so_ relaxing," he says without mockery or sarcasm—to the students' surprise. "Wizards are _prejudiced_. Yes... Wizards are _very_ prejudiced. It may not be the same way as it was years ago, but there are still traces of prejudice in the Wizarding World. Compared to the Muggle World, the Wizarding World is practically stuck at the age the muggles had had centuries ago. In the Wizarding World, the muggles are still seen as weak compared to wizards even though we had tried to add more of their technology in our world. If one knows how greatly the muggles had progressed in the past century alone, you wouldn't _believe_ their intelligence."

"So, professor, you're saying that we should act like muggles when disarmed?" a Hufflepuff girls asks in question.

"Yes."

"Hand-to-hand combat!" a boy yells.

"Ten points to Slytherin!" Sherlock says. "When disarmed, you are not defenceless when you still know that you have a chance by using your own body. A wizard would expect you to duel with a wand. A wizard would expect you to use magic, especially in circumstances of war. People wave around wands and that's it. Who would expect a wizard to run towards you, throttle you to the ground, and push his or her thumb in your eye sockets?" Sherlock asks.

The seventeen-year olds all frown in disgust in the thought of eyes being stabbed.

"Any moment now, Sir Watson will be coming in the room to show you how hand-to-hand combat is done. Now they key is..." Sherlock, then, starts talking about hand-to-hand combat. He shows and explains the complexity of it that got the students' attention.

"Er, Sherl—Professor?" John asks, coming in. "Oh, sorry, you're still teaching."

"Actually, I need you right now for demonstration."

"Sherlock, there's an injured kid in the hospital wing that severely needs healing attention," John protests sternly.

"I'm sure your girlfriend is capable of tending to a kid's injuries," Sherlock comments.The students all whisper their confirmation that Sir Watson is, in fact, dating Miss Morstan. "Now, come here and duel with me. Now."

Annoyed at his best friend's habits, John threats, "Oh, I'd keep my eye out, Holmes." The students all have one thing in mind: Never mess with Auror Healer Watson.

When John walks to the front of the class, nearing Sherlock, the students all jump up and walk to the sides of the classroom. Sherlock vanishes everything that takes up too much space in the classroom. Everyone is standing side-by-side, their backs to the wall, excited at, finally, a _real_ duel between Professor Holmes and Sir Watson. They always only see the professors curse and shield themselves in lessons.

"Salvio hexia," [3] Sherlock starts, putting the defensive spell around the room, shielding the students from him and John.

"Ready?" John asks, taking his wand from his robe pockets.

"As ever," Sherlock answers.

They bow at each other and take position, and quickly...

John wordlessly sends a spell at Sherlock which Sherlock quickly shields himself from. Sherlock, then sends a hex at John which John gracefully avoided by stepping to the side, and uses his wand to change the direction of the hex and throws it at Sherlock. The Professor throws a spell that hits the hex John threw back at him, which made a small explosion, the light vanishing between them.

John throws three powerful spells at Sherlock. The students' eyes widen at the power behind those spells and how the professor could shield himself with that. Sherlock dodges the spells by quickly dropping to the ground, and sending a hex on John's legs in which John dodged by jumping.

The two continue their duel, sweating, gaining new bruises and cuts. Until finally, John yells, "Expelliarmus," at the space where he knows Sherlock will land after dodging his two spells.

Sherlock's wand was taken out of his hand and into John's. The students start to clap, thinking it is all over.

As John was about to send another curse at him, Sherlock runs and jumps on him and starts to throttle him—much to the surprise of the students. John immediately turns around and throws Sherlock to the ground before locking his arms behind him as John pins him to the ground. They pay no attention to the students shouting as if they are in a wrestling ring. In a way, they are.

Sherlock twists himself away from John and throws him as well, and finally grabs his wand once more before casting a Stinging Hex at John which hit him on the side of his face.

"You bastard!" John yells, throwing his robe at the side. As he throws quick and abrupt spells at Sherlock which the man is busily dodging, he transfigures his robe into a chair and throws it at Sherlock while he is still dodging spells. Sherlock was, then, hit in the face as well and groans at the impact as he falls to the ground.

"Locomotor Mortis!" [4] John yells.

"Colloshoo!" [5] Sherlock yells at the same time.

Both of them were hit by the spell and both cast "Expelliarmus!" at the other. Their spells meet mid-flight and explodes between them, causing them both to go ballistic, hitting the ground rather hard.

"Truce?" John asks, lying on his stomach and attempting to stand up, using his arms to push himself up.

"Truce!" Sherlock yells, still lying on his back, raising a thumbs-up.

They both remove the curses on their bodies and stand up. John removes the Salvio Hexia and the students clap and cheer at the two excellent duellers.

"And that, class, is what you should do in a duel. Surprise your enemies. Though I was disarmed, I managed to get my wand back through muggle means, and surprising Sir Watson as well. He, using muggle force, threw a chair at me, which is also somewhat of a surprise... and something he never did before." 

Sherlock looks at John sternly whilst John gives him an innocent grin. John, then, goes to the said furniture and transfigures it back to his robe and wears it on again. The class all mutter in excitement.

"I will be teaching you actually _helpful_ and truly _useful_ spells and hexes that can be used as actual defence against the dark arts, and not just silly wand-waving to show-off to your friends. John, here, will help me teach you the muggle style of defending your—"

 _Ahhh_...

Sherlock freezes and looks at the class in horror. The class all stare back at him in surprise, amusement, and confusion. John simply stares at him, rubbing his face. Sherlock, then, grabs his notebook in his pocket and looks at the new beautifully written message.

> _Great duel, Professor Holmes._   
>  _I wanted to join but I didn't want to embarrass you two._   
>  _IA_

Sherlock, then, tries to look around to search for her but finds no one else except John and his students before smirking to himself, pocketing his notebook. Oh, she did embarrass him alright. The seventeen-year olds whisper at each other to know what links that sigh with Professor Holmes.

"Your message buddy again?" John asks exasperatedly.

"I don't know what you're talking about, John," Sherlock mumbles. "Perhaps you need healing attention from Mary." Before John manages to tease him again, he adds, "You can go back to the hospital wing now."

"Yeah, shouldn't keep my girlfriend waiting," John says, moving towards the door.

Sherlock smirks. "Or else she'll drag you back there."

"You shouldn't keep _your_ girlfriend waiting either. Might want to reply," John says, pointing at the notebook in Sherlock's pocket, before going out of the classroom.

"Girlfriend? What girlfriend? John?!" he tries but John has already left the room, leaving him in a room with curious students. Curse John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] The Protean Charm is the charm used to link objects together. According to the Harry Potter wiki, Hermione used this to link fake Galleons to communicate with the DA.
> 
> "A change in one fake Galleon (in this case, a master coin) would be magically reflected in the others so that when Harry transfigured his coin to show a new date for a DA meeting, the transfigurative change would be carried over to all others, which would also emit heat as a signal tat they were being changed by the charm to conform with Harry's."
> 
> Irene's notebooks signal would be her orgasmic sigh, because... why not?
> 
> [2] I think Mycroft would have a Leopard. Leopards are cunning, highly intelligent, and secretive. They are also the stealthiest predator.
> 
> [3] "Salvio Hexia" deflects spells and hexes from the area with the defensive spell.
> 
> [4] Locomotor Mortis is the leg-locker curse.
> 
> [5] Colloshoo causes the target's shoes to stick on the ground.


	4. The Flirting

"Have you heard about Professor Holmes? They say he's got himself a girlfriend!"

"Didn't people use to say he was gay? That news had been going on for _years_."

"Yeah, but Johnson _swore_ he heard Holmes's notebook  _moan_... and he said that it was definitely a woman's moan!"

"How on _Earth_ does Johnson even know how a woman's moan sounds like?"

"It's _Johnson_! Of  _course_ , he knows!"

It took practice and incredible will-power for John not to laugh at the rumours circulating around at Hogwarts because of Sherlock's notebook's inappropriate alert noise. He has heard a lot of rumours ranging from potential girlfriend to sex slave while walking through the corridors today alone. Oh how the students' imaginations run wild.

John heads on to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom since Sherlock is apparently too busy with something (which, as usual, he did not talk about in detail) and is not able to teach for the day.

When he enters the classroom, all of the students immediately and eagerly go back to their respected seats and look at him excitedly, as if they actually  _want_ to be taught. John smiles. He has never seen students so keen to learn before Sherlock started teaching at Hogwarts. He feels proud that his friend, and with his help, can manage to woo students by showing how important defence is all about and how bloody amazing it is to do some moves.

"Alright, class, Professor Holmes is not present at the moment and so I will be covering his class for him. Alright then..."

* * *

"You're early," he quietly tells her as he walks towards a giant rock that serves as a little cliff from above the flowing river in the Forbidden Forest, and stops a few feet behind her. He admits that the environment looks tranquil—the practical opposite of what the witch in front of him is.

She doesn't reply quickly but only stares at the movement of the river below her with her hands clasped in front of her and her stance as proud and confident as always. Her wand is right between her fingertips, pointing down to the ground like a sword. She does have a habit of holding it loosely.

As usual, she is wearing her black lacy robes which moves at the course of the wind. Her hair, which is done in a complicated tie with some of it flowing down elegantly, follows the movement as well. He has no idea how witches' robes can look like so and hug her every figure. Don't witches' robes practically ruin their figure because of their bagginess? No wonder people mistake her for a Veela... or perhaps she  _has_ a bit of Veela blood in her veins? He will never know. What he  _does_ know is that full-blooded Veelas do not affect him.

"I do not condone tardiness," she finally replies caressingly after what seemed like hours though it was only minutes. 

"With that belief, I could mistake you for a professor," he replies.

He hears her chuckle. "Getting behind schedule is exceedingly irresponsible and... _naughty_ , don't you think?" She turns her head slightly to smirk at him.

She watches him as he moves to stand directly behind her. He looks at the view over her shoulder when she turns her attention back at the river below them and at the many dancing trees surrounding them.

"How were you able to watch me as I teach my class?" he asks in an almost whisper.

She smirks without looking at him and he can feel it even though he cannot actually see it. "I have my ways," she teases.

"I know," he replies in a low tone.

They  _somehow_ keep a comfortable silence. They both stand to listen to the sound of the flow of the river, the rustling of the leaves of the trees, and the plentiful creatures that lurk in the Forbidden Forest. How can a forest so dangerous be  _this_ tranquil for both of them?

She stretches her neck and tilts it to one side, giving him a full view of her neck. He looks down on it for a moment before hearing her sigh, refocusing back on the matter at hand.

"Aren't you going to ask me why I told you to come here?" he asks her.

She turns her upper body slightly and slowly with a raised brow, her lips tugging upward. "You... _told_ me to come here?"

"I  _asked_ you to come here," he corrects himself. She merely smirks in reply. "I did not expect you to choose this area out of the whole forest." [1]

"You traced me well," she replies. "I don't have to know you tracked me down. What _I_ did not expect is that you would ask to meet me in the  _Forbidden_ Forest. Naughty, are we, professor?"

He sighs, "Your box..." he starts, annoyed at how the conversation was going. The witch smirks at her small victory. He continues, "I have reasons to believe that mere photographs are not the only contents of the box."

"You mentioned that before," she replies nonchalantly.

"I did. Now, give me the contents of the box."

She laughs. "And why would I do that?" she asks, turning fully around and walking closer to Sherlock.

"Because I said so," he replies, walking closer towards Irene, looking down at her. Despite being a head taller than her, he can't help but think that they are looking at each other in equal levels.

"And do you _really_ believe that I would...  _obey_ your rather straight-forward command?"

"Yes."

"How?" She narrows her eyes.

"I have my ways," he answers cheekily.

Her eyes sparkle in interest at the game that they are playing. "Oh, Professor Holmes, you're not going to use the Imperius Curse on me, are you?"

"If it leads to it."

"It's one of the Unforgivable Curses."

"I'm aware."

She purrs. "My, my, Professor Holmes, I did not expect you to be so... _controlling_."

"Oh, Lady Adler," he replies, smirking himself at the dangerous line he is crossing to play with this woman. He moves closer to whisper in her ear, "you have no idea what I am capable of."

Irene Adler raises her brow at Sherlock Holmes. "Don't I?" she asks.

"No," he responds.

"Show me."

"Show you what?"

" _Show me_ what you are capable of."

"Why would I need to prove myself?"

"Because you cannot help but try to impress me." She smirks.

He moves closer to her with their bodies almost touching. "Don't flatter yourself, Lady Adler."

"Are you scared, Professor Holmes?" she asks, almost whispering. This woman surpasses any Veela.

"Scared of what, Lady Adler? Scared of you? No."

"Are you scared that you do not meet my expectations?" she asks with a smirk.

He snorts in answer. "I am better than what you will ever expect me to be."

He can feel her breath on his. This is a dangerous battle. He is playing with fire—an ever-growing fire—but there is one thing he knows: he will do all he can to win.

"Oh?" she asks.

"I am merely scared of how you will be able to handle it."

"Are you going to torture the information out of me, professor?" she caresses.

Her lips part and her eyes move frequently towards his lips. He merely stares at her growing desire for him and watches her intently as she continues to do so. No one has ever shown interest in him this much before. Well, he can count Moriarty but not in this manner. He can safely say that with the woman, it is... sensual.

They both move towards each other as moments pass by but neither dare touch the other—never daring to lose the game—never daring to lose the battle. How ironic that they would act upon keeping each other's distances from the other when all they wanted to do is rip each other apart.

"...Maybe I will," he replies.

"The Cruciatus Curse?"

He hums. "I have plenty of _other_...  _creative_ ways to get information, Lady Adler."

She laughs. "Are you going to tickle me mercilessly until I beg for the mercy you desperately seek?"

"No. I am going to get information from you and you  _will_ do so."

She snorts. "No, you won't."

"Try me," he challenges. His face inches from hers, looking down on her predatorily. Oh how the tables had turned on the use of domination.

"Make me," she replies just as boldly. She raises her chin to show that she will not be taken lightly—not that he was. He, of course, knows this, which makes him all the more interested with the burning challenge of Lady Adler.

"You underestimate me."

"I am confident with myself."

"Arrogant," he comments.

"Cheeky." She raises her brow.

They stare at one another for what seemed like ages. She keeps smirking at him as he stares at her intently. He looks at her as if he would find the answers to his questions in her eyes. She grows more and more amused at her calculating gaze on her, as if she feeds on his interest.

"Why did you choose the Forbidden Forest?" she asks in a whisper, staring at his lips once more.

"Dark... Dangerous... _Daunting_..." he replies, whispering as well.

"And what do you plan to do with me while we are here?"

"I solely wish to warn you about my plans on getting information from you. It may not be done so today but it _will_ happen."

She smiles. "You are not going to win."

"Maybe I will," he replies assuredly.

"We'll see about that. Till the next time, Professor Holmes."

"Till the next time, Lady Adler."

A few more moment of eye contact, Irene Adler turns around on her spot and without as much as a quiet cracking noise, disapparates. He stares at the very spot where the woman had once stood seconds ago and laughs to himself. Finally, he turns around and walks back towards the school, not bothering to disapparate to the edge of the Apparition Wards of the school to have more time to think for himself.

He smirks.

* * *

"Did you have a pleasant meeting, Lady Adler?" Kate asks her when Irene Adler enters the Adler Manor.

"A woman never talks about her _pleasant meetings_ , Kate," she tells her coyly.

" _Hard_ meeting, was it?" she asks cheekily.

"Nothing I couldn't handle." Irene smirks at her.

As Kate nods at Irene's wink, the latter woman walks to her family's manor before heading towards the fireplace for the Floo Network and throws the powder in the fireplace and entering the green flames. She gracefully walks out after flooing to a fairly familiar place—Moriarty Manor.

"James Moriarty," she greets as she walks away from the fireplace.

"Lady Adler? What the hell are you doing here?"

Lord Moriarty rolls his eyes as he finishes sending his owls away from the window before casting protective and disillusionment charms on them. She raises her brows at the rather boring and normal looking owls before he laughs and explains that the owls were chosen to not grab too much attention should the protective and disillusionment charms fail to do its work.

"So, why are you here?" he asks once more, leaning on the window sill.

"I just want to inform you that I am successful in grabbing his attention," she announces in a bored manner as if it is not of great importance.

Lord Moriarty raises his brow at the announced news as he watches the Woman sit on his seat behind the desk. She smirks at him as she claims her dominance in the room. What else would you expect from  _the_ Woman?

"Well, that's good news to hear, dear," he replies just as nonchalantly to mask how impressed he is by one of his greatest connections, "but is that all that you had done?" he asks uncaringly, walking towards the burning fireplace and sitting on one of the armchairs in front of the fire.

"He is rather confident that he will get some information out of me," she replies, chuckling at the memory.

"And he will," he replies, smirking at his brilliance. "The plan will progress quicker and will be reached easier if he wants to impress you. Is he? Is he eager to grab your attention?"

"Do you doubt me, Jimmy dear?" She tilts her head at him.

James Moriarty only tilts his head at the Woman and replies, "I hope that our plans will not fail, Lady Adler. I do not like being... disappointed with parts of my web. It doesn't make me any... _happier_."

"Oh, you know me, oh great and powerful _Lord_ Moriarty." He narrows his eyes at her while she smirks teasingly. "I never disappoint anyone. I'm not like  _her_."

Moriarty's eyes darken dangerously at her as she says the last word. He doesn't reply.

"Have you heard, Jimmy?" she asks, walking towards the criminal mastermind and standing by the fireplace, grabbing some floo powder.

He rolls his eyes dramatically. "Heard what, _Renee_?" he asks, irritated. Irene narrows her eyes at the nickname.

"Nothing, really—only that she loves sawing bones." She smirks at him as he gives her an eerily sarcastic and fake grin. He really did find the perfect person for the job. "Remember, Lord Moriarty: I never lose a power play."

And with that, she floos back to Adler Manor.

* * *

"So... what happened? What meeting was _so_ important that you didn't even bother to show up to your own class?" John asks Sherlock immediately as he enters the Great Hall for dinner.

"Oh, some mediocre work with the muggles." He shrugs. "Man, age 33, being manipulated by a rather intelligent and formidable woman. I was perfectly able to see past through that, of course."

"You impressed the muggles, then?" John asks.

"I know I did." Sherlock smirks devilishly. "Wouldn't admit it."

"You should have tagged me along, then," John adds, "if it was _that_ much interesting a case."

"Oh, it was nothing I couldn't handle." 

Sherlock smirks to himself as the conversation changed.

* * *

For a few weeks, Sherlock's notebook had kept alerting him of several messages from the Woman. He doesn't write back since that one time when he told—no— _asked_ her to go to the Forbidden Forest to meet with him. He stares at the notebook in question, bewildered at the absurdity and randomness of some of her messages. It ranges from invitations to all sorts of things. 

> _It's a beautiful morning today, isn't it?_
> 
> _Bored in a muggle hotel. Join me._  
>  _Let's have dinner._
> 
> _You looked sexy on the Daily Prophet._
> 
> _I saw you in Diagon Alley today. You didn't see me._  
>  _Meet again? Let's have dinner after._
> 
> _I'm in France talking to an idiot muggle._  
>  _Reminds me why wizards of the past were prejudiced. Floo here, let's have dinner._
> 
> _N51°29.629, W0°9.116_ [3]   
>  _I'm in 44. Let's have dinner._

Professor Holmes has been curious of Irene Adler's casual messages towards him—which had been going on rather too often lately. The only reason why he hadn't bothered to find her or track her down is because he has been too busy with the students' horrible essays and terrible practices of wand work.

The older students had been rather smug at the two more times Sherlock's notebook had gone off loudly while he was teaching. Though Lady Adler seems to be more considerate than he had thought, she _happens_  to know never to message him when he is teaching students from first to third year. The only times younger students had heard the legendary notebook go off is when the professor is outside of his classroom.

Either way, most of the students had made a betting pool on the mysterious woman whose moan is used as an alert for the notebook.

Fortunately for Sherlock himself, the students are currently too busy because of a Quidditch match. He doesn't really care about Quidditch, unlike Headmaster Lestrade and John.

As he walks around the school grounds on the other side of the castle to avoid the roaring cheers of the students which gave him a headache from too much eye rolling, he sees a beautiful Grey Fox on top of a tree, watching him intently with eyes far too intelligent for a sly fox.

As he moves toward the said fox, the fox tilts its head at him, watching in a way that can be described as interest. He chuckles and shakes his head, smirking at the fox.

"Climbing trees now, are we, Lady Adler?" he tells the fox.

The fox straightens her back in a dignified surrender and before he knows it, Irene Adler is sitting on one of the branches of the tree which the fox was sitting on moments before. Her legs are crossed which exposes parts of her legs. She sits as if she is seductively sitting on a throne and her arms rest on branches as if they were the arms of the throne. You would be made to think that trees are incredibly comfortable to sit on... Oh how regal the woman is.

Irene, whose hair is up in one of her usual hairdos, continues to smirk at him and slowly raises her robe up slowly—exposing more of her perfect legs. Sherlock just keeps his eyes fixed on her playful pale blue eyes and they don't break eye-contact.

By now, Lady Adler's white robe is high enough that he can actually see her hip in his peripheral vision, causing Sherlock to swallow nervously at the slow torturous movement. It is one thing to be entirely naked and another to slowly reveal parts of your body like a gift being unwrapped. High enough, it reveals a wand holster on her thigh and Irene removes the wand in question and lets her robe flow down once more, covering her skin.

Holding her wand, Lady Adler jumps from the incredibly high tree. He doesn't make a move to go catch her for he knows she already has something up her sleeve.

Irene caresses the charm, _Arresto Momentum_ , before she reached the ground, letting herself slowly descend to the ground. Sherlock simply watches her as she now stands in front of him, a smirk forever etched on her face as she looks at him.

"What gave me away?" she asks, walking towards him, stopping inches away from him.

"The victory curl on your head—foxes don't have curls," he informs her.

' _I should mention that the glint in your predatory eyes gave you away as well,_ ' he thinks. Irene smirks at him.

"Lady Adler, a Grey Fox?" he asks. [4]

"Professor Holmes, a Grey Wolf?" she asks back. [5]

"How did you know about my animagus form?"

"I know a lot of things, professor," she replies, her smirk growing.

"How vague of you."

"I don't have the need to further elaborate the things that I say."

He tuts. "So many secrets, Lady Adler."

"And ones I am not willing to share," she replies, moving towards him, their noses centimetres apart. He keeps his hands clasped behind him while she has one hand on her hip while the other holds her wand casually by her side.

"Shall I use Legilimency on you to unlock your secured mind?"

"I have great Occlumency shields, Professor Holmes. I worry that you would receive a well-deserved throw from my strong skill. I push everyone... to the edge," she whispers.

"I am not like everyone."

"As you believe."

"Do not test me."

"Am I... pushing you to the edge?" she asks teasingly. The way she moves, if they were touching, he would have felt her lips gliding from his neck to his own lips, but he doesn't. He can only feel her breath and it tortures him that they are playing this horrid game. It would be so easy if they aren't like this.

"Oh, Lady Adler, you have no idea what you're doing to me," he replies as if angry. He moves closer to her as well and their bodies finally touch. Only clothing separates them now. Their lips are millimetres away.

"I might have a few ideas," she whispers, tilting her head to the side, looking at his lips suggestively and up to his eyes with fire in them. "Do you want to find out what I am thinking?"

"I thought I would be _violently_ thrown out of your mind from your _too strong_ Occlumency shields?"

"The results might fascinate both of us."

"Will it?"

"Interested?" she asks, her lips parting in anticipation.

"No."

"Or so you say."

"Professor?"

Sherlock and Irene both turn their heads from the source of the interruption—a Gryffindor boy who is holding a book about the Dark Arts, looking at the two of them with a hint of fear—so much for the house of the brave. Though one cannot blame the seventh year for cowering a bit. The two look at him as if he is being judged whether he should be thrown in hot burning lava or be thrown to a pack of rabid carnivorous wolves.

"It would seem that my small... _visit_ has come to an end, professor," Irene says, still looking at the student.

She smirks, turning to look at Sherlock once more while he turns to look at her. The Gryffindor noticed that both of them had not moved from their close proximity to one another. The two master practitioners of the magical arts keep on staring at each other.

"I wonder what the youth has yet to say next, don't you, Professor Holmes?" She smirks.

"I don't concern myself with trivia."

"Pity—" she smirks—"one can learn a lot from little facts."

"Facts are different from trivia."

"Yet they are both details. One is greater than the other but we both know that the smaller details say the most stories." She smirks. "Until our next meeting, Professor Holmes."

"Until then."

She smirks once more before walking away, her hips swaying as she walks away. He watches her the whole time until she disappears behind the trees of the Forbidden Forest. His smirk drops when he remembers what had disrupted their battle. He glares at the growingly nervous Gryffindor who is currently stepping back and inching towards the castle.

"What do you _want_?" he practically barks.

The boy flinches. "N-nothing, sir. I-it's nothing—"

"You interrupted a rather important... meeting. You might as well state your intentions," he replies, finding his composure.

"I just wanted to ask you about wandless magic which—"

"—which we will tackle in the next few weeks. If that is all you wanted to ask then get out of my sight and know that twenty points will be taken from Gryffindor for interrupting a very crucial encounter."

"The _meeting_ with that woman, professor?"

"Five more points from Gryffindor. If you don't want your housemates to kill you, I suggest you leave my sight before I deduct more points from you."

The Gryffindor immediately runs away from the enraged professor.

* * *

"How was it?" Mark asks David when the Gryffindor runs up to where they were hiding from Professor Holmes.

Most of the students already betted about the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor years before. Some betted whether the professor is gay, is in love with Sir Watson, in love with someone else, has a girlfriend, has a boyfriend, is a sex addict, or aromantic. Now, the betting pool had changed to having a girlfriend, hiring a prostitute, having a dominatrix, is stalking someone, or is just a sexless loser.

When the six Seventh Years saw Professor Holmes talking to a woman too  _closely_ , being mischievous troublemakers, they dare try to listen and spy on Professor Holmes. They chose David to go closer since he is the most daring of them all. They also manipulated him by using his pride as the only Gryffindor in their circle of friends.

"Holmes took twenty-five points from me," David answers.

"WHAT?! Really?!" Alvie, a Ravenclaw, asks in surprise.

"Yup. Twenty for apparently, and I quote, ' _interrupting a very crucial encounter._ ' Then another five points for mentioning the woman he was with."

"Yes! Gryffindor is losing points! Slytherin will definitely win this year!" Antonius exclaims, raising a hand to high-five Tacitus, another Slytherin.

"Antonius!" Alvie scolds him.

"Sorry, Alvs," he apologises to her.

"So that woman with Holmes _is_ his girlfriend," Tacitus concludes.

"Most likely," Mark says, "I mean... meeting a woman and talking to her _that_ close? Then saying it's a  _very crucial encounter_? If you didn't interrupt them, they looked like they would probably be shagging on that tree by now."

"What if they're enemies?" Antonius asks.

"They were definitely flirting," David argues.

"Why?" Kevin, a Hufflepuff, asks.

"What were they saying?" Mark asks.

"Something about pushing him to the edge. He said something that she has no idea what she's doing to him or whatever. When they saw me, they still flirted a bit more and said something about facts and trivia. I swear, it's like watching Mark and Alvie flirt. I am not surprised if they are either Ravenclaw or Slytherin from their conversation," David replies.

"I'm not Ravenclaw or Slytherin!" Mark, a proud Hufflepuff, exclaims while Alvie replies with, "I do not flirt with Mark!"

"Well, that confirms it," Tacitus says.

"HELL YEAH WE'RE WINNING!" Antonius yells. Thankfully, Slytherin scored and so no one is surprised by Antonius's outburst.

"Not yet though," Alvie cuts the celebration off. All five boys look at the Ravenclaw girl. "We caught them flirting, yes, but that doesn't mean that he's in love with her... but I agree that she might be his girlfriend... or something akin to that kind of relationship. Even I'm not entirely sure if they care about each other but they're definitely drawn to each other."

"Also, judging Holmes's personality and his probable taste in women, I'd say that he'd deny the label of their relationship. They looked like they wanted to fuck each other by that tree but their pride stops them from doing the first move," Mark adds. 

"Oh, like you and Alvie?' David teases and the two hit him in the face.

"Anyway, we bet that he has a girlfriend," Kevin argues, " _n_ _ot_ that he's in love with her..."

"Like we said, unless Professor Holmes outright confirms that the woman _is_ his girlfriend, we still don't have enough proof," Alvie points out.

"Damn, almost." Antonius sighs.

* * *

Another moan echoes from his notebook again. He is actually perfectly capable of silencing the notebook or charming it so only he can hear the blasted moan, but he knows that she could be watching him somewhere or that the notebook has a charm that would let her know that he did some changes to the notebook. That way, Lady Adler would know that he is taking things  _privately_ and he shouldn't let her think that he looks at her that way. Plus, he does like the challenge of trying to be cautious around people because of Lady Adler.

"Another one of those messages, then?" Mary asks as they wait for John to come to the Great Hall.

A lot of the other professors had been frustrated at him whenever they ask about the notebook, deeming it inappropriate, especially in front of the students. He is not an idiot. In classes, ever since that first time since his notebook had inappropriately alerted, he has a drawer in the classroom which he casted the Muffliato Charm on. Oddly enough, Irene never messaged him whenever he does that. Though twice, he stupidly forgot to place the notebook inside the drawers. Both times, he had fallen victim to Irene's playful teasing.

"Yes," he replies nonchalantly, opening the notebook to look at her message.

> _I'm sad tonight._  
>  _Let's have dinner._

He wills himself not to reply with a "Where?" or "Here." and so he just stares at the beautiful penmanship that can only come from Lady Irene Adler.

"You know, you really shouldn't bring it around when there are children walking around near you. It's really inappropriate for the First Years," Mary points out just as John arrives and sits between her and Sherlock.

"It is crucial for the sake of the Wizarding World," Sherlock argues.

"Now, now, Sherlock, what did we say about exaggerations?" Mary asks.

"I _never_ exaggerate. I am quite accurate if you are actually aware of what is happening."

"And saying that this is crucial for the sake of the Wizarding World is _not_ an exaggeration?" Mary laughs.

"Yes," he tells her, trying to focus on the mission planned.

Lady Irene Adler has great information about Moriarty and the fate of the dark wizard and the wizarding world... and all of that is inside one small box which she is with her all the time and can be only opened by a simple code. Sherlock finally figured out why Irene would use a code like the muggles instead of using blood like most traditional pureblood wizards would have done. Blood is so easy to acquire: kidnap the owner, cut the owner, get some blood, and there you go.

But a code?

A code is inside someone's mind... and Irene Adler claims to have an  _extremely_ strong Occlumency shield around her mind and he can confirm it for her.

Ever since their first encounter, he has always tried to use Legilimency on her to test out how great her skills are on pushing people out of her mind. Other people had always been so easy but her...? Even with the subtlest of ways, he still cannot infiltrate her mind. He sees nothing and he can only ask himself how powerful Lady Adler really is. Her mind seems to redirect her into some blank space but he knows better.

He, of all people, knows that Irene Adler's head is not at all empty. Her Occlumency is so great she can make her mind appear empty at the slyest of Legilimency. He has taken a greater respect for Irene Adler though he will never admit that to her.

* * *

...Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and everyone else in the Great Hall, Mary Elizabeth Morstan, who was once Rosamund Mary [6] had already met Lady Irene Adler because of their old meetings with Lord Moriarty, her past leader.

This is the past that she is not willing to talk about, preferring to forget about it.

It was a long time ago for her anyway... but she knows what the Woman is capable of and what she can do to people. She's concerned for Sherlock because there's no telling on Irene's intentions... and if that Woman blabs on her, there is no telling on what she will do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] It was not written here but Sherlock told her to meet with him in the Forbidden Forest but not ~specifically~ where. Irene, knowing that he'd eventually find her, just went to a place she deemed appropriate for a meet-up.
> 
> [2] Sawing bones: a little reference to doctors. "She loves sawing bones." "She loves a doctor."
> 
> [3] The coordinates lead to 45J Eaton Square, Belgravia, London.
> 
> [4] The Grey Fox (also known as the Tree Fox) can climb any kind of tree. Among canids with the exception of the raccoon dog, it is the only canid animal which can climb on trees. Apparently, a Grey Fox is either nocturnal (active during hours of darkness, particularly nighttime) or Crepuscular (active primarily during twilight or the period after dawn and before dusk).
> 
> Why I chose this animal for Irene's Animagus:  
> Foxes have great physical or mental responsiveness. They are also highly intelligent, incredibly cunning, amazingly swift, can easily get through difficult situations. They also stay in dense covers and peer around for predators before they cross open areas... sounds like someone I know.
> 
> [5] The Grey Wolf (also known as the Timber Wolf) is apparently a social animal and have packs (which oftentimes only consist of 2-3 wolves) though some are lone wolves. Though Sherlock, at times, may seem like a lone wolf, he does have a pack (John, Mary, Greg, Molly, Mrs H, even Mycroft). The Grey Wolf is also the largest of all canines.
> 
> Wolves are territorial and protective animals, especially to their pack. Grey Wolves are actually averted to fights but can also be quite aggressive when harassing their prey. Wolves are highly intelligent, confident, strong but kind, patient, and dignified. Quite familiar, isn't it?
> 
> [6] We all know the story now.


	5. The Questioning

"Notebook still going off, huh?" John asks.

He, Mary, and Sherlock sit in their linked quarters, a room provided to them by the castle herself. They usually use this place like a house common room. Right now, they are spending some time together in silence, drinking tea. To Sherlock, it is another way to interrogate him about recent events—judging from John's question. The woman had caught him off-guard plenty of times and he cannot concentrate with her.

"Quite so," he replies nonchalantly, looking through the Daily Prophet after closing the notebook in an attempt to stop the conversation before it happens.

"And do you ever reply?" Mary asks him.

"Why should I?" he asks as if bored with the topic even though what he really feels is the need for them to shut up and leave him alone.

"Because the person sending you those bloody messages is either threatening you or is bothering you so much just so you'd reply to that person. I think the latter, to be honest," John answers.

"Why would you think that?" Sherlock asks casually.

"Sherlock," John says seriously, "the notebook's alert is a woman's _orgasm_."

Sherlock stares at him blankly as Mary laughs out loud, unable to control herself because of Sherlock's reaction, knowing that he is probably mortified at what John had said... as if it wasn't the most obvious thing in the world.

"So... are you going to tell us where that notebook came from and who gave it to you?" John asks, pointing at the said notebook on the table beside Sherlock's wand.

"You know who, what, and when it's from."

Sherlock is not an idiot. Of course, he obviously isn't. He knows perfectly well that John knows where the notebook came from, or more specifically, from  _whom_ it came from. Sherlock knows that John is forcing him to say that it is a woman, and not just  _any_ woman—but  _the_ Woman—and he will not lose.

"Yes, but I want you to say it," John replies, smiling cheekily. He knew it.

"Why?"

"Nothing specific," John replies teasingly. Mary stifles a laughter, holding on to John's arm for dear life as to not fall down on her chair from suppressed laughter.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Then there is no need in my saying, is there?" He looks down at his watch. "Well, it would seem that our conversation is over and is getting dull, and that it is almost seven o'clock in the evening and I need to go someplace else."

John and Mary stare at each other. "Where?" John asks. "You didn't tell me anything about this. Is this another one of Mycroft's meetings with you?"

Sherlock huffs, annoyed. "You can say that."

Sherlock stands up and grabs his robe from the nearby armchair. He walks out of the room without another word to go outside of the castle. Meanwhile, just as Sherlock steps out of their quarters, Mary and John stare at the door.

"He's going to a _secret meeting_ ," Mary tells him.

"He is." John nods.

They both look at each other with a mischievous grin and both stand up, grab their robes, and follow Sherlock who is walking through the corridors.

They walk a good distance behind him and they are confident that they will not be seen nor be caught by the professor since one was a trained Auror and former Head of the Auror Department while the other one was secretly the right-hand of Moriarty himself and is an expert spy. They're both perfectly capable of fooling the professor (though it sometimes irritates Mary that John seems to be too worried that she won't be as sneaky as he is and she can't blame him because he doesn't know about her past).

They both see Sherlock walking around with his head down. In further inspection, they finally understand that Sherlock is looking at the small legendary notebook in his hand before finally pocketing it once more and focusing on where he is going. When they see a rather slippery and puddled floor, Mary wordlessly cast "Silencio" to her and John's feet so Sherlock wouldn't hear their footsteps.

The three make their way out of the castle and into the forest. Sherlock walks around confidently, not bothering to sneak out so people wouldn't think he is up to something. It's a good technique to hide in plain sight. ' _John would think I'm using my Slytherin skills again_ ,' Sherlock thinks to himself. Unbeknownst to him, his two friends are jumping from one tree to another to follow him.

They reach a cliff where they can see the Shrieking Shack. The forest stops several feet away from the edge of the cliff and so John and Mary stop at the closest tree to the cliff. Sherlock stops by the edge of the forest, looking around the beautiful view despite the abandoned shack.

John and Mary quickly huddle together closely when realise that there is a woman standing on the edge of the cliff, realising that she is what Sherlock had been staring at as well as the view... or perhaps she is part of his _view_?

They see that her left hand is on her right wrist while her right hand holds her wand as if it's not a weapon or anything incredibly valuable but merely a stick she is holding. It reminds John of how Sherlock carelessly handles his belongings—a sister, perhaps? They watch as Sherlock walks to stand beside her and they both stare at the Shrieking Shack. John and Mary watch as the two envelope in a comfortable silence, analysing the view in front of them. Sherlock's hands go inside his robe's pockets. John believes that Sherlock's right hand is probably wrapped around his wand in case something goes wrong.

They watch as the two talk quietly. Both Mary and John try hard to listen but realise that the two mysterious people probably casted the Muffliato Charm without them knowing since all they can hear is some odd buzzing when they try to listen in.

John and Mary look at each other in surprise and amusement when Sherlock removes his robes and wraps it around the woman's shoulders. John was right. Sherlock  _is_ holding his wand in his pockets. They watch as Sherlock move closer and closer to the woman—nope, definitely not a sister. The woman looks at Sherlock lots of times (though her hair hides her face).

"Merlin, they should just kiss already," Mary whispers at John who is too stunned for words.

The woman then walks backwards, taking Sherlock's robe with her. Mary's eyes narrows at the possibility that the woman whom she suspects to be Irene probably knows that she and John are in this exact spot since she seems to be an expert at hiding her face from them. They see Sherlock look confused for a moment before shaking his head and mumbling something under his breath before, he starts to leave, shivering.

* * *

Sherlock walks towards the cliff, seeing the woman who is intently gazing at the Shrieking Shack. Snow gently falls on the abandoned house and at the blasted woman. It reminds him of that time they were in the Forbidden Forest. She's wearing a dark red witch's robe which is probably not suitable for this weather.

He stops when he is a feet behind her left side and look at the scene before him as well, figuring that the view is both sad and beautiful—a mysterious house, abandoned and broken, but covered with beautiful crystallic flakes. Irene herself is thinking the same thing but her subconscious is giving her a small idea that this abandoned house is a representation of herself.

Her thoughts were broken when she had heard the professor at the edge of the forest behind her and she smirks devilishly when she also heard his two friends hide somewhere by her left and makes sure to hide herself from them. She casts the Muffliato Charm wordlessly, trying not to show that she had moved her hand which is holding her wand.

Irene and Sherlock take a few moments in silence, looking at the view as gentle snowflakes float down from the sky and settle on the view before them, uncaring how cold it really is. Sherlock places his hands in his robes, holding on to his wand just in case something happens.

"People say it's haunted," she tells him after the silence.

"People are idiots," he replies.

"Of course, they are. Wizards, the most," the woman says, turning her head a bit towards him as to address him but her eyes are still fixed on the shack—mindful of _Rosamund_  and her healer boyfriend, John. "How can a wizard fear an abandoned house and call it haunted when that very same wizard went or goes to a school where ghosts roam around its corridors?"

"Spirits of whom had died may pass by this world, talking, speaking, interacting with the people of today... but the real ghosts are the ones we make for ourselves," he tells her, looking up and watching as the snow gently falls down around them.

"How poetic."

"Aren't you cold?" he asks, taking his robe off almost immediately.

The woman laughs. "How gentlemanly of you, professor."

"My parents are traditionalists when it comes to manners and etiquette." He smiles. "You might have deduced that much from my brother alone. He's too traditional that you would quickly see how much of a pompous git he is."

"Such language, Professor Holmes." The woman laughs. "Traditions say that two purebloods work fascinatingly great together."

"By 'work' you mean?"

"Marriage," she replies.

This time, Sherlock laughs. "We'd be too busy being at each other's throats to be traditional."

"I never said anything about the two of us," Irene points out, smirking smugly.

Sherlock's laugh stops before he sighs. "The box, Lady Adler, where is it?" Sherlock asks instead.

"You change the topic so drastically," she comments, looking back at the view. Sherlock doesn't reply and so she continues, "Why do you think I would just hand it over to you? I could curse you before you even step a foot towards me."

"Like I said before, you hold information about the fate of Moriarty, his pack and of the Wizarding World... and I need it," Sherlock replies.

"I want you to beg for it," Irene says, smirking devilishly at Sherlock.

"No."

"Didn't you just say that you need it?" Irene teases.

"Not enough to throw away my dignity," Sherlock comments.

"Then my answer is: 'No, I shan't give it to you willingly.' Once you have acquired the information in the box, you are going to give it to your brother, are you not?" Irene raises a brow with Sherlock raising a brow in return. "Unfortunately, dear, I'll need this for my protection. What else is there to protect myself from Moriarty than his faith on me?"

"Hmm... What I want to know is how you got them in the first place."

"A woman never reveals her secrets," Irene says cheekily.

"But you're not just a woman, are you?" Sherlock asks.

"No, dear—" she smiles—"I'm not." Irene starts to walk backwards, still looking at the professor with a smirk on her lips. "Give Rosamund my love." She smiles.

"Rosamund?" Sherlock asks but before he asks more, the woman apparates away, the Muffliato Charm vanishing away with her, and he gives out a cry of frustration. "The Woman," he mumbles. Sherlock shakes his head and walks back to where he came from.

* * *

Mary and John stare at each other and finally leave from their hiding spot when Sherlock is a good distance away from them. They both walk towards the edge of the cliff—where Sherlock and that woman had started talking (flirting)—and look at the view in front of them. Mary feels something being placed on her shoulders and realises that it is John's robe. John places his arm around Mary's waist while Mary's hands are in her pockets, too focused on the fact that she knows it was Irene Adler whom Sherlock was talking to.

"You know," John starts, "this place is beautiful."

"It is."

"I can't believe I'm saying this but Sherlock is good at picking locations for dates—" he laughs—"and this area is _kind of_ romantic."

"Kind of?" Mary asks. "I'd be perfectly fine if our next date is located here."

"Well then..." John smiles and Mary hits him.

"Well, I won't be surprised anymore if our next date _is_ here!"

"Mary Morstan, we _are_ having our date—right here, right now." John smirks, looking at his girlfriend beside him.

Mary looks at John. "We sneaked out of _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_ like a bunch of teenagers in the middle of the night to follow your best friend who is apparently meeting up with a woman we know nothing about," Mary tells him, "and you're calling this a date?"

"Yes." John grins stupidly.

"Fair enough." Mary gives him an impressed look and John laughs.

"God, Mary Elizabeth Morstan." John smirks and kisses her on the side of her head.

"I know." Mary smiles. "I'm _that_ amazing. Come on, let's go back. I don't want you to freeze to death," she tells him, looking at her robe-less boyfriend.

"Well, I trust you to heal me in five seconds."

Mary hits him in the arm again. "Don't expect me to heal you every time you get a fever, John Watson, ex-Head Auror and _Healer_."

They start to walk away and go towards the school.

"So, a woman..." Mary starts.

"Sherlock's taking too much time with this 'case'." John shakes his head. "That woman is going to destroy him, eventually."

* * *

"So, Sherlock, how was that meeting with Mycroft last night?" John asks Sherlock as they eat breakfast in the Great Hall.

They watch as the other students eat. The Gryffindors are being loud as ever—accusing and pointing at each other for no apparent reason. The Ravenclaws are almost as noisy as the Gryffindors—arguing and debating about things even some of the professors don't know about. The Hufflepuffs are kind of noisy as they help each other work on their notes and teaching some on lessons they probably weren't able to grasp. The Slytherins are grinning at each other and some are listening to higher years make speeches on never giving up and how the school system actually works at Hogwarts.

"Eventful," Sherlock replies, shrugging. "I certainly didn't acquire any helpful information."

"What was it about, by the way?" John asks, doing every bit of best acting ever. He knows he is one of the few people Sherlock never uses Legilimency on except when there's danger or if he's a bit suspicious. Though Sherlock really only uses his full skills on Legilimency on criminals and witnesses.

"Something about wizard idiocy—" Sherlock shrugs casually—"and a bad case of withheld information from Mycroft."

"Ahhh." John nods. He is starting to understand how amazing Slytherins can lie. Sherlock could have really done well in Slytherin with that attitude. "Must be an 8, at least."

"I'd say it was a 4... Not really my area," Sherlock replies, grabbing a book on something that seems to be in a different language.

John smirks to himself. Sherlock Holmes sneaks out at night to meet up with a woman? Who would have thought to see the day?

He wonders who it is. At first, he thought that it was Lady Adler but it couldn't possibly be her. From what he had learned from Sherlock, Lady Adler had gone to different countries, travelling to probably get more  _protection_ from people. Yesterday afternoon, an hour before Sherlock left to go to that secret meeting, he peeked at Sherlock's notebook. He saw that Irene Adler is in Japan for some reason. He doubts that Irene Adler can come here in the short hours when he saw the notebook and when Sherlock sneaked out.

Since Japan is on the other side of the world, he knows that apparition is almost impossible. Inter-continental apparition is banned anyway. She can't have flown here since the distance would have taken longer hours to come here. She can't have used a Portkey because he once sneaked a peek on Sherlock's notebook when he left it and it said:

> _I'm in Japan and an idiot in the restaurant used a Portkey and fell._   
>  _I'd never Portkey for anything less than a 10. Would you?_

She must have used Floo Powder. Although, there doesn't seem to be an inter-continental link for the Floo Network. So it must have been another woman with Sherlock. He doubts it's a relative because it was pretty obvious they were flirting. Question is: who?

* * *

"Okay, class, I don't have anything more to teach today. You're all free to go," Sherlock says even though there is still half an hour before class is done.

The twelve-year old students look at each other awkwardly as to think whether the professor is joking or not. This is the first time he let them go earlier and they have lots of reasons why they are suspicious of him. Maybe it's another test? They all look at the professor who is sitting on the desk once more.

"What are you all staring at? Go." Sherlock points his quill towards the door and the students look at the door suspiciously. Sherlock sighs. "Merlin's beard, I thought you to be aware and conscious of everyone around you, not to lose all trust in me." He rolls his eyes.

' _Though I don't think I'm a good person to trust at all,_ ' Sherlock mentally evilly smiles at the thought in his head. Sherlock sees a pack of boys whispering towards each other, and angrily whisper pointedly at each other and he rolls his eyes at the students.

"Sir?" a student with black messy hair and bright green eyes asks. [1]

"Yes, Lupin?" Sherlock asks and the Hufflepuff's hair turns red in embarrassment.

"Sir, a-a lot of us a-are wondering w-what, er... why boggarts like dark spaces?" Teddy asks, his hair turning back to black and messy.

Sherlock hears the other students grown and he raises a brow in curiosity. "I believe your friends were hoping you'd ask a different question."

"Don't be ridiculous! Just ask it!" a Gryffindor girl says.

"You do it, then! If you're so brave enough!" Teddy exclaims.

"Fine!" the girl says. "Sir, what does that sound mean?"

"Sound? What sound?" Sherlock asks, taking his wand almost immediately and standing, looking around for signs of commotion but being subtle about it as possible. What sound? Is there an attack?

"The one that sounded in your pockets! It sounded like a lady in pain!" a Slytherin comments and a lot of others snigger at the fake innocence.

"That is none of your concern. Now, I shall leave the room to get something checked and if I come back and you are still here, I shall give you a month's worth of detention. Class dismissed... I said GO!" Sherlock yells.

The students quickly stand up and leave the room just as Sherlock rolls his eyes and mocks the noise under his breath before grabbing his things and walking towards the hospital wing. He greets back the students who greet him—which is a lot, to be honest. He doesn't know why students even like him.

As he walks in, he sees Mary going over an injured Ravenclaw and he can deduce that it was because of Quidditch practice. ' _This school has the lack of knowledge when it comes to students' safety,_ ' he thinks. John is going over the Potions cabinet and walks over to three other students who are most likely sixth years since they are all undergoing nasty cases of Splinching.

Sherlock, then, walks over to one of the beds and lies down, closing his eyes and trying to relax. It is one thing to mope around in his own office but that's boring. It is better to mope around where he can hear his friends working—just to hear movement instead of complete isolation.

"Sherlock! What the bloody hell are you doing here?!" John exclaims somewhere.

"John!" Mary scolds.

"Sorry," John whispers. "Sherlock?" he asks again, whispering sharply.

"Nothing," Sherlock answers.

"Then get out of the bed. The sixth years are learning Apparition and I think there will be more students in the hospital wing for the next lessons," he replies. 

"Who's the Apparition professor again?" Sherlock asks, not bothering to leave the bed. "No-no-no, I can get this. Stamford went to St. Mungo's. Sarah is also at St. Mungo's. Mary is in the hospital wing. Then there was that intern with the spots, then the one with the nose. Who was after the boring teacher?"

"Nobody!" the student with the splinched foot replies exasperatedly.

"Five points to Gryffindor for helping me remember.... Jeanette!" Sherlock exclaims and John cringes at the name while Mary hides a laughter. "Ahhh, process of elimination. See, John? I can remember people."

"We'd rather get splinched and get the job slightly done than listen and die," the one with the splinched arm says.

"Hush," Mary scolds sternly, "and don't get involved in conversations that doesn't include you... and I told you _not to move_! You all need some rest so stop listening. You, four, drink this, it'll take patience to heal you all up and being awake and mobile is stoping it."

The injured third year and splinched sixth years all take the Sleeping Potion and are knocked out in a second.

"Do they really need to be asleep?" Sherlock asks. "Because—"

"No." Mary shrugs. "I just don't want them to hear the little fact that John once dated the boring Apparition professor."

Both Sherlock and Mary start to laugh as John frowns at the horrible date where he forgot about the fact that she doesn't own a cat.

After a while, Sherlock is looking at and judging the Potions in the cabinet in the Infirmary while John and Mary heal splinched students the rest of the day.

* * *

"I know you're hiding somewhere. I don't need a mysterious and grand entrance. Goodness knows it's getting boring."

"I'm hurt," the woman replies, coming out from one of the pillars.

"Good."

She smirks. "Always so sadistic."

"God knows you're familiar to sadism."

"God?" the woman repeats, raising a brow. "You spent a lot of time in the Muggle World, I presume?"

"It was essential for my survival."

The woman hums and looks around the abandoned shop in Knockturn Alley in nostalgia, smiling. "I'm surprised you still remember this place."

"How can't I? I've spent years sneaking in this place unnoticed... but now that I'm here, I want to know what you plan on doing to one Sherlock Holmes."

The woman walks towards her guest, standing as dominant as ever now that she is a few feet from her invited guest. "I was expecting a friendlier chat, Rosamund." Irene smirks.

"That's not my name anymore, Irene, and you know it," Mary responds coldly.

"Still using my first name now, I see..." Irene circles around Mary while the latter woman stand up straighter, not daring to seem inferior than the dominatrix. "How long have you been _Mary Morstan_ , Rosamund?" Irene asks. "About two years?"

Gritting her teeth from her real name, she replies, "At least,  _I_ _left_ Moriarty's side. Still his follower, then?" Mary asks, sitting on one of the armchairs as she grabs her wand and points it at the fireplace to start a fire.

"Oh, please." Irene smirks mockingly, sitting opposite Mary, crossing her legs and sitting as regal as she does. "I'd rather live as a vegetarian werewolf than be his follower. Goodness knows the man can be a tad bit too obsessive for words."

Mary snorts. "He and Sherlock both. I can see a pattern."

"A pattern of what?" Irene asks with a raised brow.

"A pattern of the kinds of people you love to toy around your fingers. Powerful men, aren't they? And yet you hold control over both of them with neither of them knowing?" Mary raises a brow.

Irene chuckles, choosing not to reply. "Does the _boyfriend_ know of Rosamund?" Irene smirks devilishly and Mary raises a brow, and  _smiles_.

"Well, if I answer no, how are you going to expose me, then? Are you going to _accidentally_ let the little fact slip from your mouth when you get the chance to talk to John again?" Mary asks cheerily, the amount of threat in her playfulness obvious as she stares at the fire.

Irene smirks. "I'd never... _tattle_... on you, dear."

"You mean you won't tattle _again_?" Mary smiles threateningly.

"Oh, Rosamund dear, are we still stuck in the past?"

"Don't. call. me. Rosamund."

"Don't bite, darling," Irene tells her casually. "Besides, we both said it since we first met. We are not going to hold back if one of us is in danger and the only way out of it is exposing the other. I would think that you'd thank me. If I didn't expose your intentions to sell out Moriarty for your own gain, you wouldn't be on the run and meet your precious _John_ , would you?"

Mary's jaws clench, not wanting to say how right Irene is.

"Anyway, I don't need to expose you right away. This might even be good information to use if I ever get myself in a tight situation."

"You mean you would tell Sherlock and threaten to expose my identity to Mycroft who will probably love to lock me up, and to stop you, you get to have protection just to keep you silent about my past?" Mary asks with a raised brow.

"You know me so well, Rosamund dear." Irene smiles. Her eyes drift down to Mary's clenched fist. This woman definitely does  _not_ want to be called Rosamund. Irene sighs. "Stop being dramatic, sweetie. I'm not going to expose you..." ' _At least, not right now,_ ' Irene thinks to herself.

"Good—" Mary smiles, looking at Irene again whilst grabbing her wand and pointing it at her threateningly—"because someone might _accidentally_ fire something at someone, causing an excruciating amount of pain."

Irene laughs. "And we both know how much of an expert I am when it comes to unlocking pain."

"Still a dominatrix, then?"

"Of course." Irene shrugs. "Still an assassin?"

"Not mostly, though I may be forced to act as one again if something happens that I don't want to."

"Well—" Irene smiles—"we'd want to avoid that, wouldn't we?"

"What do you want?" Mary asks finally.

"Nothing at the moment." Irene shrugs

Mary watches as Irene grabs a notebook (which awfully looks like Sherlock's notebook), and a beautiful black quill, and starts wirting something nonchalantly.

"Not even Sherlock?" Mary asks teasingly.

" _I_ don't want people. _People_ want  _me_."

Mary snorts. "Arrogant as ever, I see."

"I'd rather use the word 'confident'."

Mary laughs. "Is that the term used in wizard tradition nowadays?"

"Do you think I'm the kind of grandiloquent witch who follows wizard traditions from centuries ago?" Irene raises a brow teasingly.

"Of course not," Mary laughs. "You're a dominatrix who manipulates muggle objects to satisfy wizard means. You don't care about other lords or ladies except yourself and you firmly believe everyone is below you. Although, you still do go to grand balls every year in different disguises, correct?"

Irene laughs. "Tradition is so boring."

"You didn't answer my question, though," Mary points out.

"And that was the plan," Irene playfully admits.

"What do you want with Sherlock and why did you call me?"

Irene grins. "It does make me smile when you call him by his first name. I remember the time you always call him Holmes whenever we have our _get-togethers_."

"That's in the past."

"And your past has come to haunt you," Irene says, standing up and walking towards the window. 

Seeing a bottle of wine along with glasses from the other shop in front of where they are, she vanishes the said bottle and conjuring it on the table beside her.

"I am never haunted by the ghosts of my past," Mary replies.

"A wise man told me that there are no such things as ghosts—" Irene turns around to look at Mary—"save for those we make for ourselves."

"That's darkly beautiful. Did Moriarty say that?" Mary asks, taking the glass Irene had offered before the dominatrix gracefully sits back down on the armchair in front of her once more.

"No." Irene smiles, sipping from her glass.

"Well," Mary starts, "if this is the only reason why you called me here, then I must take my leave."

"Then, by all means, leave." Irene smiles, gesturing at the door. "Jim Moriarty sends his love."

"What does he know?" Mary asks.

"Not much. I know more than him—unsurprisingly. I daresay Sherlock Holmes has blinded him... and the only thing you did is change your hair and your stance."

"I know how to hide in plain sight." Mary smiles. "It didn't fool you, though. I must be losing my touch."

"My dear, anyone who has known you as much as I do would not be fooled. You chose to be the healer before the assassin—the sweet romantic who loves to show sass—the same Rosamund that I know." Irene shrugs a shoulder.

"I remember the Irene who loved tradition; the Irene who had ribbons in her hair and wanted to marry the Minister to wrap him around her finger and take his power... on second thoughts, you haven't changed at all."

Irene laughs. "Oh, to be young again."

"You don't mean that." Mary laughs.

She smirks. "Of course not... Well, my dear, Rosamund—"

" _Mary_."

"—I shall have to leave as well. I am _very_ pleased to talk to you again.  _Very_."

"Likewise," Mary replies coldly.

"Ciao, Rosamund."

Mary sighs. "My name is Mary."

"You'll always be Rosamund to me." Irene winks before apparating away.

Mary grits her teeth and lets out a breath she had been holding from trying not to strangle Irene. They haven't seen each other for two years when she decided to leave Moriarty's side. Irene, of course, was never a complete follower. She was merely a consultant of the consultant... which is why she is dangerous - she doesn't have a side. Sighing, she walks back to Hogwarts to her boyfriend.

* * *

"Have you seen Mary?" John asks Sherlock while they walk towards the Great Hall to eat dinner along with the other professors and students.

"She said she had to meet someone."

"Who?"

"How should I know?"

_Ahhh..._

Sherlock flinches at the moan and moves away from John's curious eyes.

"Sherlock is there _any_ way to keep that notebook silent?!" John asks, irritated.

> _Talking to an old_ friend _. Join us. John can come, too._  
>  _Interested in dinner for four?_  
>  _If not, we can abandon them and have dinner alone._

Sherlock shakes his head and continues to walk, ignoring the look on John's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Indeed, that would be Teddy Remus Lupin at age 12 since the events are happening at 2010. Yes, he is currently taking the form of his godfather, Harry Potter. I think Harry would often take care of Teddy and Teddy loves him so much that he mimics Harry at times.
> 
> Though I think it would be hard for Harry since he is not the real father and would rather have Teddy mimicking his real dad, Remus, or his mum, Tonks.


	6. The Excruciating

In the Great Hall, the students and the professors who had stayed in Hogwarts for the holidays watch Professor Holmes play the violin in the middle of the Great Hall—between the table of Ravenclaw and Slytherin where everyone is seated. The High Table is currently abandoned since the headmaster, Lestrade, decided that it would be good for the professors to mingle with the other students.

Everyone who likes Sherlock (and there are only few people from the staff who do) looks at Sherlock fondly as he continues to play 'We Wish You a Merry Christmas.' Despite the abundance of students at Hogwarts (almost half of them had stayed), there is a lacking of professors—a great relief for Sherlock, to be honest.

As Sherlock finishes the tune, the headmaster whistles in appreciation, while the other students and professors clap. Sherlock bows to his audience.

"That's amazing, Professor Holmes!" Professor Hagrid compliments him.

"Lovely! Sherlock, that was lovely!" Professor Hudson says, clapping.

"Marvellous!" John adds.

Probably because she's been drinking too much wine, Professor Hudson starts giggling at Sherlock. "I wish you could have worn some antlers!"

"Some things are best left to the imagination, Professor Hudson."

"Professor H," John says, handing her some tea to sober her up.

"...Oh dear Lord," Sherlock mutters to himself when he sees Molly come in through one of the side entrances of the Great Hall, wearing some muggle clothing, probably off to meet someone later.

Only, Sherlock, John, Mary, Molly, Professor Hudson, and three more professors are wearing muggle clothing rather than robes.

"Hello, everyone. Sorry, hello!" She smiles. Everyone greets her cheerfully.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh, everybody's saying hello to each other. How wonderful," he comments sarcastically. He hears some of the students giggle at his comment. He shakes his head. Teenagers enjoy too much of his sarcasm

Molly starts to take her coat and scarf off.

"Let me, er—" John starts, about to help her with her coat before pausing when he sees her—"Holy Mary!"

"John!" Mary laughs at John's expression, not at all jealous at John's attention to Molly.

"Wow!" the headmaster exclaims. Lestrade continues to gape at Molly since her black dress seems to hug her figure.

When asked about her clothing, she replies, "I'm going somewhere later, so..." She smiles, sitting between Professors Hudson and Lestrade. She looks down at the food and drink on the table. "Having a Christmas drinkies, then?"

"No stopping them, apparently," Sherlock adds, sitting down beside John.

"How did you manage to bring this here?" she asks, gesturing at the wine. "There are children in this place."

"None below fourteen of age, apparently," one of the professors say, rolling his eyes.

"And it's the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me, so it's almost worth it!" Professor Hudson says. Molly giggles, her eyes stuck on Sherlock as he goes through the Daily Prophet, frowning.

"John?" Sherlock asks.

"Hmm?" John moves closer to Sherlock.

"The counter on your books: still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five."

John mock-angrily hits the table. "Oh, no! Christmas is cancelled!"

"They've got a photograph of me wearing that hat!" Sherlock points at the moving photograph of him in the Daily Prophet as he hides from the cameras, wearing a deerstalker.

"People like the hat."

"No, they don't! What people?" Sherlock continues to go through the paper as John moves to listen to the others.

Meanwhile, the headmaster touches Molly's arm which changes her attention. "Molly?" She turns to him. "Want a drink?"

"Yeah, sure." She smiles and Lestrade immediately grabs a glass and pours her some wine. "How's the hip?" she asks Professor Hudson.

"Oh, it's atrocious but thanks for asking."

"I've seen much worse, but then I do post-mortems." An awkward silence falls. Molly blushes in embarrassment. "Oh, God. Sorry."

"Don't make jokes, Molly," Sherlock scolds.

"No. Sorry," she whispers.

"Post-mortems?" the student, who is most probably a pureblood, nearest to them asks.

"An examination on dead bodies," Sherlock replies.

"You shouldn't be listening to adults' conversations," Molly scolds them.

"Sorry, professor," the students apologises quietly before turning back to his group of friends.

Professor Lestrade hands Molly a glass of red wine. "Here you go."

"Thank you," Molly says, "I wasn't expecting to see you. I thought you were gonna be in Dorset for Christmas?" Molly asks.

Lestrade smiles. "Donovan's coming here tomorrow to take charge while I'm gone. Dorset's first thing in the morning—me and my wife. We're back together. It's all sorted." He shrugs.

"No, your wife's sleeping with an Auror," Sherlock interrupts, still looking at the Daily Prophet.

Lestrade's genuine smile forms to something that looks forced. He thinks about what Sherlock said and sighs when he realises that Sherlock is right _yet again_. Guess he has to cancel Dorset.

Molly turns to John, who is holding Mary's hand as she snuggles beside him.

"And John," Molly tries to change the topic, "I hear you're off to your sister's, is that right?"

"Yeah," John confirms, "Me and Mary."

Molly adds, "Sherlock was complaining—" Sherlock raises his brow at her pointedly—"saying," she corrects herself.

John continues, ignoring what she just said, "First time ever, she's cleaned up her act. She's off the booze." John raises his glass a bit as if toasting.

"Nope."

"Shut up, Sherlock!" John snaps. Some of the students actually quieten a bit though the professors do not notice from the growing horror about to unravel before them.

"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him."

"Sorry, what?"

"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift."

"Sherlock," Mary scolds. They do not notice how silent the Great Hall is.

"Take a day off," John mutters, exasperated.

"Shut up, and have a drink!" Lestrade tries, standing up and handing Sherlock a glass.

"Oh, come on. Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag—perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best." Sherlock stands up and walks towards where Molly is sitting. He grabs the said present from the bag which is just behind Molly. "It's for someone special, then. The shade of red echoes her lipstick—either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Professor Hooper has luuurve on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact she's giving him a gift at all."

The others look anxiously at Molly as she stands up, wanting to gain control of herself. She sees Lestrade standing near the area where Sherlock was sitting, mouthing, 'Sorry' at her.

"That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn... and that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her makeup and what she's wearing." He turns the gift over and looks at the tag attached to it. "Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts—"

He stops as he looks at the writing.

> _Dearest Sherlock_  
>  _Love Molly xxx_

Sherlock looks at the gift in shock and dawning horror at the display he has shown.

Molly gasps. "You always say such horrible things. Every time... Always. _Always_."

Molly fights back tears and Lestrade slowly moves forward. Sherlock was about to walk away himself but thinks better of it and turns back to her.

"I am sorry. Forgive me."

John looks up at that, amazed at the human gesture from Sherlock. Mary just stares at the two, knowing that Sherlock can be an idiot sometimes, and knowing that Molly likes Sherlock.

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," Sherlock tells her, leaning forward, and kisses her gently on the cheek.

_Ahhh..._

Molly gasps in shock. "No! That wasn't! I-I didn't—!"

Sherlock sighs in exasperation. "No, it was me." All professors and students near them all look at Sherlock.

"My God, really?" Lestrade asks—one of the only few who hasn't heard the alarm in the past and paid attention.

"What?!" Molly asks.

"My _notebook_." Sherlock reaches into his jacket and grabs the small notebook.

John narrows his eyes. "Fifty-seven?"

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock asks.

"Fifty-seven of those messages. The one's I've heard."

Sherlock looks down at the message on his notebook. 

> **_High Table._ **

Not her hand-writing. Sherlock turns with his eyes fixed on the table where the professors should have been dining. In the middle of it, rests a red box tied with a black rope.

He answers John, albeit a bit absentmindedly. "Thrilling that you've been counting."

He walks towards the table and picks up the gift. Sherlock observes and stares at the blood red colour of the gift, and remembers the colour of Irene's lips on the day they met. No. This is private. No one must see what this is. He doesn't even know why it is private—it just is... but he feels that there is something important with this gift.

"'Scuse me," he tells the others, walking away from the Great Hall and to the doors.

"What—? What's up, Sherlock?" John asks.

"I said 'Excuse me'," Sherlock replies, continuing to walk away without looking back.

"D'you ever reply?" John calls out.

Lestrade moves towards Molly and tells her to sit down with him as she sips nervously at her glass of wine. John looks at Mary in confusion before following. She simply shrugs in reply. Professor Hudson looks at the main doors in concern as Sherlock walks away, still looking at the small red box in his hand.

* * *

Sherlock walks quickly down the school corridors and goes to his own personal bedroom and sits on his bed. Rather immediately and eagerly, he manages to open the box. Sherlock pauses in surprise and shock when it finally dawns on him what is inside the said gift. He had his suspicion but didn't want to let that cloud his brain. Still, even though he has predicted this, he finds himself not liking that he is right.

Lady Adler's box.

That's what he's been calling it in his head nowadays. He has wanted to retrieve this box since the day he almost got it before she took it back from him. He shakes his head, trying to observe the box and inspects it intently. It could be a fake, or a decoy to remember her by...

Realising that it is, in fact, the _actual box_ , he looks at a distance thoughtfully, his hand lowering with the box tightly held by his hand. His mind quickly forms ideas and reasons why she would give him her most priced possession. Unfortunately for him, he could only sigh and face the truth.

In his office, Mycroft sits by the fire when his fireplace flares up and sees Sherlock in the fire.

"Mycroft," Sherlock abruptly says through the flame. Mycroft, with his brows raised, walks towards the fire and crouches down to look at his brother.

"Dear Lord, we're not going to have Christmas fire calls now, are we? Have they passed a new decree?"

Ignoring this, Sherlock informs Mycroft, "I think you're going to find Irene Adler tonight."

Unbeknownst to Sherlock, John had entered their linked quarters and was grateful that Sherlock's bedroom—which would be one of the few places where no one is really allowed to be in except John since he is Sherlock's doctor— has its door wide-open so he doesn't need Sherlock's permission to enter.

"We already know where she is," Mycroft answers, "as you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters."

With his voice low, as if not wanting to admit it, Sherlock finally tells him, "No, I mean you're going to find her dead."

Sensing that there is another person nearby, he looks sideways a bit to see John. He brandishes his wand to vanish the flames from the fireplace and walks towards the door, pretending that nothing has happened. He tries not to show the horror he feels that John had probably heard too much than what he wants him to know... but he doesn't want to deal with the questions.

"You okay?" John asks.

"Yes," he simply replies.

Sherlock closes the door to John's face. He looks at a distance momentarily before moving his eyes towards the wretched box that is still sitting o his bed, mocking him with its existence.

Miles away, Mycroft looks outside the window and towards the view outside of his office, trying to gather his thoughts and analysing the use and tone of Sherlock's words...

Sherlock never calls him, and he never calls him _first_.

* * *

The Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor and the Minister of Magic make their way to St. Mungo's Hospital. The place seems to be deserted on Christmas Day, save for a few people who actually cares about their families. They walk towards the mortuary where Molly is waiting. She changed her clothing from earlier today to the standard uniform for practitioners at St. Mungo's.

"The only one that fitted the description... Had her brought here—your home from home." Mycroft smiles at nothing. Sherlock ignores him as they enter the mortuary.

Sherlock addresses Molly, "You didn't need to come in, Molly."

"That's okay," she says quietly, "everyone else was busy with... Christmas." She clears her throat. Mycroft looks at Sherlock curiously when he leans back guiltily. "Er, the face is a bit, sort of, bashed up, so it might be a bit difficult..."

Molly, nodding to herself, finally pulls the sheet down to reveal the face of the corpse. Mycroft's brows rise up at the sheer amount of violence that must have been placed on the corpse's face to look so... horrid. Sherlock merely looks at the face of the corpse, still unconvinced that the Woman will die in a much... quiet affair. He doesn't want to—no.

"That's her, isn't it?" Mycroft asks Sherlock but once again, he is ignored.

"Show me the rest of her," Sherlock orders Molly.

Molly grimaces disbelievingly but walks along with the sheet with her, revealing the corpse's whole body. Sherlock's eyes scan the body up and down.

"That's her," he announces to everyone present before turning and walking away.

Mycroft, startled and unable to comprehend what his little brother's actions had just implied, seem to have lost words - which is not a usual event. He looks down at the corpse again, trying to make out what she had done to his stone cold brother. When he realises that Molly is still present, he addresses her.

"Thank you, Professor Hooper," he thanks her, starting to walk away.

"Who is she?" Molly asks him before he could leave. "How did Sherlock recognise her from... not her face?"

She forces herself to smile at the last part. Mycroft smiles briefly at her, not answering, and follows his brother who is outside the mortuary. He sees him standing in the corridor, looking outside of the window. Walking towards him, Mycroft holds out a cigarette towards Sherlock.

"Just the one," Mycroft says firmly.

"A cigarette?" Sherlock asks, seeing the cigarette over his shoulder.

"Figured you might prefer this than a pipe."

Sherlock stares at the cigarette. "...Why?"

"Merry Christmas."

With two fingers, Sherlock takes the cigarette from Mycroft. "Smoking indoors... isn't there one of those... one of those decree things?"

With a flick of his hand, Sherlock's cigarette lights.

"We're in a morgue... There's only so much damage you can do," Mycroft replies as Sherlock inhales and blows smoke form the cigarette. "How did you know she was dead?"

"...She had an item in her possession—one she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up." Sherlock takes the cigarette again and inhales.

"Where is this item now?" Mycroft asks but Sherlock ignores him _yet again_.

Turning, Sherlock looks at the direction of the sound of sobbing. A family stands on the other side of the doors at the other end of the corridor, holding themselves together, and sobbing probably over someone who is close to them and most likely died.

The two Holmeses look at the grieving family.

"Look at them. They all _care_ so much... D'you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage... Sherlock."

Sherlock blows another smoke before looking down at the cigarette and frowning. "This is low tar!" he complains.

Ignoring him, Mycroft daresay, "Well, you barely knew her."

Sherlock's lip curl to the side as he mutters a little, "Huh," before walking away. "Merry Christmas, Mycroft."

"And a Happy New Year."

As Sherlock leaves, Mycroft walks away and quickly goes to the nearest fireplace and throws in some floo powder to contact someone.

When John's head appears in the fireplace, he quickly says, "He's on his way, have you found anything?"

"No. Did he take the cigarette?"

"Yes."

At Hogwarts, in front of one of the fireplaces in the Great Hall, John swears, "Shit." He looks at Mary and Professor Hudson. "He's coming. Ten minutes."

"There's nothing in the linked quarters," Professor Hudson, "and the elves swore that they found nothing in his personal bedroom."

"Nothing in his classroom and office either," Mary adds.

"Looks like he's clean. We've tried all the usual places," he tells Mycroft. "Are you sure tonight's a danger night?"

"No, but then I never am. You have to stay with him, John."

John looks at Mary before replying, "I've got plans."

"No," Mycroft firmly orders before the flame of the Floo Network dissipates.

"Mycroft! M—"

"What?" Mary asks. "We are going to have to stay, aren't we?"

"Er, yeah... I'm _really_ sorry."

"No, no, no, not at all. Sherlock's been acting rather strange lately, and that rarely happens to Sherlock... He's terrified."

"' _Course_ he's not."

"Did you see him when he left? He didn't once show any sign that he heard us calling him. He just left. What happened, anyway?"

"Last thing I heard before you chucked me out of his room is that Irene Adler is dead."

"Did you just say Irene Adler?" Mary asks, wide-eyed.

"Why?" John asks, before his eyes widen. "Do you _know_ her?"

"No! No, no, no," Mary denies, quickly, remembering that Sherlock did meet Irene when she and John spied on him. " _Think_ , John. Sherlock rarely reacts this way to another human being. Sure, if one of us dies, Sherlock would feel devastated, but we're his friends. Of _course_ , he'll be saddened... but this Irene Adler? This is a woman he met for... er... how long?"

"Three months, and they most probably only met personally once. Well, from what I know, anyway."

"I don't want to be quick with my conclusions but maybe—and think about it—but maybe she feels something for this woman."

A pause. "But he's _Sherlock_."

"Hmm, what is it that Sherlock says all the time? Oh yes. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbably, must be the truth, right? That's what he says? Using this, what else can we conclude from what we already know?"

"I don't know."

"Just think about," Mary tells John, standing up and kissing him on the forehead. "I'm going to check on the most unusual of places. We may never know where Sherlock might have his stash."

"I'll go with you," John says, standing up.

"No," Mary stops him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock will need you when he gets back. Go to your linked quarters."

"He won't talk."

"And we both know that that is why he will need _you_. You know him best. You'll know what to do and how to deal with this. You better keep an eye on him... Knowing from what we know, he'll need it."

* * *

Leaving St. Mungo's Hospital, Sherlock turns and apparates to the end of the anti-apparition wards at Hogwarts and walks in a daze towards the said school. His mind cannot seem to take the thought of Irene Adler dying with a distorted face. His mind is against him. It cannot process the obvious facts. He has seen it with his own eyes but it still won't come to him.

There is more. There is something he knows that he didn't miss but his mind is being incredibly irrational. He knows there is something wrong with what he has seen but he can't shake the form of the body's deformed face.

Irene Adler has a face that a man might die for.

And now what has happened? It is bashed in as if it was nothing. No... If Irene Adler was to die, she wouldn't have known, would she? Why would she send him her box if it is not for the fact that she does not need it anymore? Many wants her head on a plate. Of course, she needs it. For goodness' sake. If she was going to die, she wouldn't give her phone to him. That's irrational, is it not? There's a reason for this... and he thinks he knows.

* * *

John feels rather than hears Sherlock enter their linked quarters, moving towards his own personal bedroom—the only place no one can get into except when given permission. John has been waiting for the fire, looking at a book instead of reading it. Turning, John looks at Sherlock who seems to be looking at a distance and focusing at the place at the same time. John wonders at the distracted and sort of lost look in Sherlock's eyes.

"Hi," John tries to grab his attention. Sherlock's eyes roam around the room instead of answering him. "You okay?" John tries to ask again.

Sherlock continues to observe, sensing that there are lots of things that are not in their right places, absorbing every detail, and mentally sneering at how much they changed their personal common room. Once, he looks at John with recognition in his eyes, He passes by John and walks towards his personal bedroom.

"I hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time."

John hears Sherlock's bedroom door close shut. Placing his already abandoned book on the arm of his chair, he rubs his face with frustration, sighing heavily. He takes a deep breath at the knowledge of an upcoming dark mood from Sherlock and the fact that this would not be an easy week.

Sighing once more, John stands up and walks away from their linked quarters, and to his own personal bedroom. When he reaches his place, Mary herself is waiting by the fire, her legs tucked under her as she sips from tea, wearing one of his muggle sweaters.

"How was he?" Mary asks when she sees John by the doorway.

"Knew what we did, of course." John shrugs. "He went to his room."

Mary stands up and pulls him to sit down on the armchair where she was sitting before. She, then, sits down on the arm of the chair, placing her arm around John.

"Did he say any—"

"Nothing as usual. He just hoped that we didn't _mess up his sock index this time,_ " John tries to imitate Sherlock but sighs afterwards. "He's gonna go into one of his moods again, I know it."

"Then just let him be. I'll keep an eye on him if you're out or something." Mary pulls him closer to her. He pats her on the leg before she kisses him on the forehead.

"We talk about him as if he's a child who needs to be taken care of."

"He practically is," Mary answers. John smiles at her in reply before they both stand up and get ready for bed.

* * *

Irene Adler walks along an empty path in the Forbidden Forest as a fox, keeping perfectly quiet as possible. She climbs up a tree and sits on one of the branches, hiding in the shadows, behind the tree's many leaves. Suddenly, she hears movement from behind. She turns quietly to see a lone wizard walking around, hands in his pockets, and probably enjoying the serenity of the place. The man turns around and her fox eyes widen when she sees the face of Professor Holmes.

Sherlock walks and removes his hands from his pockets and she sees that there is a mere box in his hand. Her box. She watches intently as Sherlock Holmes stands on the little cliff, where they had their first secret meeting in the Forbidden Forest, and looks down on the lake below him. She sees him look at the box in question, probably trying to find out how to open it. She smiles when she knows she got the great Sherlock Holmes baffled with her code.

She quietly climbs down, trying hard not to be heard by the wizard. When she is far away enough, she transforms back to her human form and turns on the spot to apparate to one of her secret houses.

"Back already, Lady Adler?" one of the portraits in her house asks as she enters the sitting room. "I thought you would have wandered around for a few more hours, considering that you are currently on the run."

"There was an interruption and I decided to come back before I was discovered."

"Big trouble?"

"A bit." She smirks. "Thankfully, none was suspicious of me," Irene says, shrugging off her coat, wears her green dressing gown, and grabs her wand to make a fire.

"How long will you be in hiding?" the portrait asks.

"Until I need to," she replies, grabbing one of the books from her shelves and sitting down on the sofa in front of the fire, starting to read.

"And when would that be?" the portrait asks.

"When I say so."

She glares at the portrait to shut up, and thankfully the portrait does and leaves the painting to leave her alone. She sighs in relief and goes back to her book.

Despite reading, she cannot help but think back to the analysing stare Professor Sherlock Holmes has had on her box, as if wanting to reveal all her secrets, clinging to the only thing he has on her. She smiles, knowing that she has the professor wrapped around her finger.

Looking down at her book, she realises that the thought of him had removed her attention away from the text of the book. Does that mean that he has a hold on her as well? No. Impossible. She is Lady Irene Adler of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Adler. Of course, no one would have a hold on her. She has a hold on everyone—even Lord Moriarty is under her thumb. No. No one can stop her. No one can distract her.


	7. The Unveiling

Students that had stayed for the holidays—and almost half of the school had stayed [1]—have been whispering about one Professor Holmes. They hadn't seen him much. Well, less than usual. Usually, Professor Holmes would be roaming around the school or going around and searching around and outside the school grounds.

He would be scoffing at some of the other professor or he would be seen chatting with the first years [2]. This time, they haven't seen a trace of Professor Holmes for _days_. It has proven to be a disappointing thing for some of the Ravenclaws. Others are merely curious to the change.

They first hypothesised that Professor Holmes might be like the stories about Teddy's dad, Professor Remus Lupin, who had also been the Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts years ago... but of course, they scratched that out because the full moon happened days before Christmas [3] and they had seen Professor Holmes at the time.

The second hypothesis was that Professor Holmes is probably being consulted by the Aurors or the Police... but there were also rumours that Professor Holmes uses a Time-Turner for the consultations in order to never miss a class... and even though that rumour is proven to be false, Professor Holmes usually has a note on his office door telling everyone of his unavailability... so, indeed, it would seem that he is in the castle somewhere...

The third hypothesis would be that Professor Holmes is actually living amongst the creatures in the Forbidden Forest and are studying their habits, but Professor Holmes is not the Care-of-Magical-Creatures type of person.

The clear indication that Professor Holmes is neither missing nor horribly kidnapped is the fact that some students—who had stayed up late for _reasons—_ had caught sight of the said professor walking around in his pyjamas, holding something in his hands.

They usually catch him walking towards this cliff where the Whomping Willow was once placed—it was removed due to the fact that idiotic students dared to go near it and have _fun_ , then complain about their injuries. Headmaster Lestrade had it placed back in the Forbidden Forest.

Professor Holmes would be seen resting an instrument on his shoulder and start playing, facing the Forbidden Forest as he does so. One would say the music he plays sounds beautiful. Some of the students who actually wander around the school corridors would stop just to listen to Professor Holmes play.

After a song, the students would notice that Professor Holmes suddenly vanish out of thin air after playing the violin which is probably still a work in progress since it doesn't seem finished.

All in all, even though he claims to never get along with people, almost all of the students are worried about his absence—knowing that it is highly unusual of him to do so.

* * *

Once more, Sherlock walks towards the replacement tree for the Whomping Willow where he once caught the Grey Fox watching him. He looks at the tree in question, staring at the branches suspiciously, waiting for some sort of movement. He shakes his head for his habit.

In between those times when the Woman would often send him messages in their linked notebooks, every time he walked around, day or night, he never fails to catch that majestic Grey Fox staring back at him. It was foolish of her to be in the school grounds in her Animagus Form. Anyone could have caught her.

Right now, he brings with him his violin and sighs to himself. There is that same view of the Forbidden Forest—the very same place where he and the Woman would often meet each other and dance around the other. Oh, the best of times with the Woman. The best of times. He places the violin case down on the ground and grabs his violin. Placing the instrument on his shoulder, he starts to play, savouring the music.

He knows that there are students looking for him, watching him at this time of the night. They're not exactly gifted with eavesdropping abilities.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to the professor and his students, there is a wanted witch who is lurking from the castle's Astronomy Tower. The witch in question can make out a silhouette of a man walking towards the tree she had usually stayed at every time she spied on one Sherlock Holmes... not that she needs to.

It is only to assure that her box is still safe. Right? She can only hear the echoes of the music Sherlock is composing.

When he stops playing, she feels disappointed coursing through her body for not being able to hear the whole composition. The Woman—Irene Adler—sees Sherlock hide behind the tree, away from prying eyes, placing the violin he had used under the tree where it would have been safe and use the Disillusionment Charm on himself then vanish from her sight.

After a while, she sees him again behind that Care of Magical Creatures Professor's hut, hiding and then changing himself into the Grey Wolf.

Feeling in control once more and quickly, Sherlock runs down the small distance from Hagrid's hut and towards the Forbidden Forest, trying to find his own prey. Letting himself run as fast as he possibly can, being at one with the forest as he tries to forget about anything.

The Woman smiles at the majestic creature that runs towards the forest. One day, she promises herself, she would be running along beside him. Not that she cares. She just wants to know how exactly good a wolf the professor is.

Changing herself back into the Grey Fox, Irene runs from the Astronomy Tower and goes beyond the Anti Apparition Wards at the other side of Hogwarts, and changes back into her own majestic self—wearing her muggle disguise and a few Glamour Charms as usual since she's not entirely fond of Polyjuice Potion—when she knows she cannot be seen by anyone else.

Entering her secret house, the portrait roars at her almost immediately.

"He knows! Run!"

Expecting this earlier, she immediately grabs her emergency bag—quickly wordlessly using Diminuendo to shrink it—and floos away to go to the abandoned shop in Knockturn Alley where she met Rosamund— _Mary Morstan_ —days before.

As she gathers all of the things she needs for another moving out, she starts to think. Moriarty found out where she is. She should be more careful. The dark lord must have told some of the people she had wronged in the past where she is and are now off to kill her. She has to be protected. No, she _needs_ protection... and all the protection she needs is currently given to one Sherlock Holmes by _herself_. She must have it back.

* * *

It was a grave mistake for Sherlock to let go of himself too much last night. The professor had accidentally fallen asleep as the Grey Wolf in the Forbidden Forest. It would probably mean that he doesn't need to sleep in the morning as he usually does.

His body aches all over at the uncomfortable ground he had slept on. He goes back to his Human Form and he groans in pain at the long amount of time he had used his Animagus Form.

He looks at his own reflection in the conjured mirror. He looks like shit. He sighs. Thankfully, he didn't bother to change to his pyjamas last night since he expected that he wouldn't go to sleep at all, although he is still wearing his dressing gown. Looking around, he knows that he is somewhere deep in the woods.

He doesn't bother to cast _Point Me Hogwarts_ either to make searching easier for him. He doesn't bother to go back to his Wolf form since he feels sore all over. He figures doing everything the muggle way today doesn't seem to be a bad thing.

After a quarter of an hour walking, he makes his way to _that_ tree and grabs his violin. Not bothering to change, and because he is oddly hungry, he gets inside the Great Hall where everyone who is inside stares at him.

He hears some giggles from the students as well as some whispering, but he cannot help but hear the worried glances from some of the students and the disapproving glances from the professors.

He walks behind the High Table and goes towards the area behind the Christmas tree where the other instruments lay and moves towards the sheet music stand. Uncaring what others think, he grabs the sheet music stand and walks towards the window behind the High Table, dragging the music sheet stand behind him.

The others wonder why he didn't use a levitating charm on the object, nor a summoning charm instead.

He supposes it would have been better for him to go to his private quarters, or be alone in his classroom but he finds that he doesn't care _at all_... and he doesn't want to use magic at the moment nor does he have the energy to carry a music sheet stand to his classroom... so this place will have to do.

He starts to compose and play the violin. Everyone is certain that the music is a revelation of Professor Holmes's feelings. The students and professors immediately quiet down, watching the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor compose and work quietly by himself. Previous students had, again, been proven wrong that they will not be surprised by any trick up another professor's sleeve.

Professors Hooper and Lestrade look at each other knowingly at the lonely aura Holmes is showing, and they communicate to each other just by looking that their friend is definitely _not okay_. Professors Donovan and Anderson look at each other and stare at the humanistic behaviour Holmes is showing.

They can't help but be surprised at how... sad the music seems to be. Sir Watson and Madam Morstan, on the other hand, watch worriedly as their friend continue with his composition—a sad yet beautiful melody... Both of them not knowing that the other is thinking of the same thing—that this has something to do with Irene Adler's death.

Sherlock, on the other hand, doesn't notice any of these. He keeps himself occupied by the music—not caring that the music is being felt by everyone in the room—not caring that all eyes are on him—not caring that his music-playing is a better strategy of quietening everyone instead of casting _Silencio_.

* * *

John had been talking with Professor Hudson at the green houses to give some advice for her hip which St. Mungo's hadn't helped with much. As they talk, looking through the glass walls in front of them, he sees Sherlock walking towards the tree where the Whomping Willow used to be. They watch him take his violin out and start playing once more.

"John?" Professor Hudson asks.

"Huh? What? Oh, sorry, I was just—" John starts and stares at Sherlock who seems to have his eyes closed but is continuously playing the violin, moving along with it with a grace no one else can imitate.

"I worry about him, too... Anyway, I am just about ready to go to Hagrid's," Professor Hudson says, holding a giant pot in one arm and a giant-sized Daily Prophet in the other arm. "Thank you for the advice again, John. You've been a dear."

"Do you need any help with that?" he asks, already grabbing the massive Daily Prophet newspaper from Professor Hudson before she protests.

"Oh, John, you're a saint."

Thank goodness that Hagrid's hut is near the replacement tree. As John and Professor Hudson walk side-by-side towards Hagrid's hut, he stops Professor Hudson from walking further when they are near Sherlock enough. They both look at each other at the sad tone of the music.

"Lovely tune, Sherlock. Haven't heard that one before," Professor Hudson comments when Sherlock had turned his head for a moment to address them. Sherlock knew that he was being watched.

"You composing?" John asks Sherlock.

"Helps me to think," Sherlock replies, _finally_ talking after a long while of silence. He starts to play the tune once more.

"...What are you thinking about?" he asks a tad bit hesitantly.

Sherlock doesn't answer but he suddenly snaps, turns around, places the violin on the ground, and looks down at the newspaper on top of the pile John is holding which would be the Daily Prophet. John notices Sherlock's frantic movement and the fact that Sherlock doesn't seem bothered by the gigantic newspaper.

Rapidly, Sherlock says, "The counter on the Daily Prophet about your books is still stuck at one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five."

John hums. "Yeah, forgotten. No one seems to be casting."

"Forgotten—or someone tried to freeze it and it's a message."

"Hmm?" John asks, confused.

Grabbing Irene's box from his pockets, Sherlock looks at the four-character passcode needed to be placed in order to open the box. He places the runes—which he had already cracked after a long research—that would mean 1895. His eyes light up in enthusiasm and hope.

The box shreds its cover and on the side, written in gold cursive hand-writing, says:

> _**Wrong Passcode. You have 3 attempts remaining.** _ **  
> **

His enthusiasm dies down.

"Just forgotten," Sherlock informs him, his voice grave. Sherlock turns away from them and grabs his violin once more.

"Right," John says, looking at Professor Hudson who is looking at Sherlock who is starting to play the sad composition once more, "right... Well, Professor Hudson and I will go now."

Sherlock ignores him. John sighs, nods at Professor Hudson, and they begin to make their way down the hill towards Hagrid's hut which can be seen from the cliff where Sherlock is playing right now.

Quietly, John asks Professor Hudson, "Listen: has he ever had _any_ kind of—" he sighs—"girlfriend? boyfriend? a relationship? _ever_?"

Professor Hudson briefly glances at Sherlock's direction. "I don't know," she answers quietly.

Frustrated, he sighs, "How can _we_ not know?" He moves his arm as an attempt to gesture at himself and Professor Hudson.

"He's _Sherlock_. How will we _ever_ know what goes on in that funny old head?"

They both look up at Sherlock who is still playing the violin. John smiles sadly. "Right."

They reach Hagrid's Hut and Professor Hudson knocks on the door. The half-giant opens the door and greets them.

"Professor Hudson! Sir Watson! Wha' brought yer here?"

Professor Hudson smiles and says, "Just giving you the lettuces for your Flobberworms, Hagrid." She hands him the pot which the half-giant only grabs with two fingers. "And John here is carrying the newspapers that are addressed to you," she adds.

"Aww, thank yer, Sir Watson."

"Come now, _Professor_ Hagrid. It's John," he tells Hagrid as he gives him the newspapers as well.

Hagrid moves aside the door and nods his head inwards. "Lemme brew some tea for yer. Come in! Come in! Just in time for my cakes!"

Before they enter, however, a woman dressed in a black muggle dress cuts them off.

"John?" the woman asks, leaning on the wall of Professor Hagrid's hut.

"Yeah?" John turns to look and sees that the said woman has a smirk on her face. "Hello," he greets her. The woman moves away from the wall to make a very flirtatious movement. He reminds himself that he is in a healthy relationship with a witch he loves but he has to admit that the woman is pretty sexy. " _Hello_."

"So, any plans for New Year tonight?" the woman asks, walking closer.

"John?" Hagrid asks.

"Uhh..." he starts. He turns to look at Hagrid and Professor Hudson who are both staring at him. John gestures for them to enter the hut without him. "Nothing too grand. Few things I couldn't heartlessly abandoned. You have any ideas?" he asks, trying to find out the ulterior motive of this woman. He knows never to trust people who enters Hogwarts in a muggle outfit—not anymore.

"One," she replies, holding up a Portkey.

John sighs in understanding. "How long?"

"A few seconds."

Placing a hand on the Portkey, he tells the woman, "You know, Mycroft could just floo me... if he didn't have this bloody stupid power complex."

They are, then, transported to an abandoned power station in the Muggle World. It's too muggle not to be seen as anything else. He looks at the woman beside him.

"Follow me," she says, walking away from him.

"Just a minute," John replies, transfiguring his wizard robes to something muggles would wear. "Right. Lead the way."

As she leads him through the abandoned structure, he can't help but sigh in annoyance about the Minister of Magic.

"Couldn't we just go to the Leaky Cauldron? Sherlock doesn't follow me everywhere."

Still walking, the woman types on a muggle device—a phone—then stops and gestures through the area in front of them.

"Through there," she informs him.

John gives her a look but walks on. The woman, then, turns and heads back the way she came.

If John turned around, he would have seen the woman who had lead him change form immediately and disapparate from her position to get inside the large room where she will be meeting someone.

' _I knew he would believe that he would be meeting the Minister of Magic,_ ' she thinks.

* * *

Sherlock, who was watching the scene below him as he composes, realises that a woman dressed in muggle clothing stopped to talk to John.

Of course it _could_ be one of Mycroft's people, but then again, they don't act like that, nor do they wear anything that doesn't resemble a suit. This woman is not part of the government and he wants to know who this is... but that stance... that posture... that small tilt in the head. He only knows one person who may be able to act that way.

Irene Adler.

He decides to place a Taboo curse on his name—since there are only a few people who calls him _Sherlock_ which would be John, Mary, Professors Hudson, Hooper, and Lestrade—in case there would be wards against trackers. No one would think he'd use a Taboo curse of his own name. 

He doesn't stop playing, however, even though he should place the curse now, knowing that it would be suspicious or wary for the  _mystery woman_ whom he knows is Irene Adler if he stops playing. His violin playing would reassure her that he is not concentrating. As much as he hates to continue this blasted piece named 'The Woman's Lament', knowing that the Lament in question is dedicated to the very woman who is just beside Hagrid's hut, he has to endure the humiliation and fake-defeat for everyone's sake.

Even unknowingly, the Woman still manages to best him.

When John and the probable Irene Adler are transported away via Portkey, he waits a few more moments, just to make sure. That formidable woman is known to be cautious. There is no doubt she would have portkeyed somewhere else instead of the actual position. By now, she and John are probably walking to their destination. 

After a few more minutes, he finally casts the Taboo on his name. He waits in anticipation on the time when John says his name. As he waits, he thinks about why Irene Adler—because he is confident that mystery woman  _is_ Irene Adler—would be so obvious with her reappearance... Getting John in the middle of the day in the school grounds? Unless she knows she can be seen and is giving him a message?

"Sherlock!" He hears someone yell behind him.

 _Sherlock!_... Hogwarts School Grounds near Hagrid's Hut.

He is pleased to know that the Taboo works. He turns around to see Mary walking towards him. "Sherlock, did you know where John went? Professors Hudson and Hagrid said someone came to get him?"

 _Sherlock..._  Hogwarts School Grounds near Hagrid's Hut.

"I think he might have been kidnapped," he states calmly.

"WHAT?!" Mary shrieks.

"Don't worry. She's harmless... or at least, she won't harm John."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I am a hundred percent certain," he tells her confidently, "so don't worry."

"Sherlock!" Mary scolds.

 _Sherlock!..._  Hogwarts School Grounds near Hagrid's Hut.

She has  _got_ to stop saying his name, for goodness' sake! It's getting annoying!

"Trust me," Sherlock says quietly. "I'm just waiting for the right moment."

 _Sherlock..._ London, Battersea Station.

He hears his own name in her beautiful voice... Interesting, that it was her and not John who said his name. She chose Muggle London. He sighs at the thought of seeing the Woman again.

"What is it?" Mary asks.

"Time for me to go."

"What about John?" Mary asks, placing a hand on his forearm to stop him from leaving her like this.

Sherlock looks at her. "That is precisely where I am going right now."

"Take me with you, then."

"No."

"John is _my_ boyfriend, and if he is kidnapped, I would want to rescue him."

"Mary, I have to go alone."

"Why? Do you think I won't handle it because I swear to God, Sher—"

He cuts her off with laughter before the Taboo happens again. 

"I don't think _I_ will."

With a wave of his wand, he removes the Taboo and before she says anything else, he changes into the Grey Wolf and runs away from Mary [4] who tried running after him. He reaches beyond the Anti-Apparition Wards of Hogwarts and so he turns back into his human form, changes his robes into muggle clothes—which is not a challenge since he always wears a muggle suit beneath his wizard robes—and disapparates.

* * *

As she hears John approach, Irene changes her clothes to something she wears. She removes her glamours and wait for the right moment to strike.

"He's writing sad music," John's voice echoes around the large room, "doesn't eat... barely talks, only to correct the television..."

John turns all around, looking around the abandoned area, to see what kind of place this is. Irene, meanwhile, starts walking from her hiding place.

John continues, walking further into the room, "I'd say he was heartbroken but, er, well, he's _Sherlock_..." He stops where he is walking and looks around, his voice lowering. "He does all that anywh—"

John stops when Lady Irene Adler walks into his view.

"Hello, Sir Watson," he greets him.

Irene stops a distance away from John and they both stare at each other for several seconds, trying to talk and understand the situation both of them are in. John is trying to understand and sink in the event that a dead woman had risen from the dead. Irene is trying to remember the formed plan she had in her head and reminding herself that all of this is necessary.

"Tell him you're alive," John pleadingly asks of her quietly.

Irene shakes her head slightly. "He'd come after me."

" _I'll_ come after _you_ if you don't," John threatens.

"Hmm, I believe you," she comments.

[5]

Shifting from his position, John loudly points out, "You were _dead_ on a _slab_. It was _definitely_ you."

Calmly, Irene replies, "DNA tests and spells are only as good as the records you keep."

He snaps, "And I bet you know the record-keeper."

"I know what he likes," she replies, "and I needed to disappear." She sighs the last word, crossing her arms to make a point.

"Then how come _I_ can see you, and I don't even want to?"

Irene chuckles at that. "Look, I made a mistake." She raises her hands in mock surrender. Clapping her hands and clasping them together, she continues, "I sent something to Sherlock for safe-keeping and now I need it back, so I need your help." [6]

Oddly enough, she feels a sense of magic when he said the professor's name.

"No," John says firmly. ' _Sherlock? First name-basis now, are we?_ ' John thinks.

"It's for his own safety," Irene replies calmly, raising a brow in the process.

"So's this: tell—him—you're alive."

"I can't," Irene responds calmly. Did John hear sadness in her voice?

Sherlock would have come after Irene. Both Irene and John know it. Sherlock would chase after her with some excuse that he needs to find out more about the box or something of the sort. Bottomline is: He may be chosen to be a target to be followed and she knows he would catch her... and they will both be in trouble.

John doesn't care, though. He is more worried about Sherlock's safety than Irene's. Of course, he would. Sherlock is John's best friend.

"Fine," John breathes heavily, fighting back his anger at how the Woman is playing with Sherlock's emotions—Sherlock who had never before acted on his emotions for anyone. "I'll tell him," he starts firmly, "and I still won't help you."

As John turns swiftly and starts to walk away, Irene calls out, "What do I say?"

Yelling furiously, John turns back around towards her and walks closely. Irene notices and observes that this is not Healer or Sir Watson talking to her. This is Head-Auror John Watson talking to her.

"What do you _normally_ say?! You've messaged him _a lot_!"

Irene goes through her pockets and grabs a notebook that looks similarly like the notebook Sherlock has that gives out an orgasmic sigh every time he receives a message from her. She opens the said notebook and starts to turn its pages.

"Just the usual stuff," she tells him.

John rolls his eyes. Of course, it's not usual. It is never usual when it comes to Sherlock Holmes—especially not this. The Woman is a follower of the Dark Lord and this is _Sherlock_. They had probably exchanged threats and important information about each other as their means of communication. Of course, there is no _usual stuff_.

"There is no _usual_ in this case," John points out to her.

Sighing, Irene looks down at the notebook in her hands and reads the messages she herself had hand-written to Sherlock.

"'Good morning'," she reads out loud. She hums, chuckling at her own messages. "'I like your funny hat', 'I'm sad tonight. Let's have dinner'." At this point, John turns his head to finally look at her, surprised. Irene, still looking at her notebook, flips the pages and hums, chuckling. "'You looked sexy on the Daily Prophet', 'Let's have dinner', 'I'm not hungry'—" she looks up and stares at John—"'Let's have dinner'." Her eyes narrow as emphasis.

Looking at her in disbelief, John tells her, "You... _flirted_...with Sherlock Holmes?"

Skimming through her notebook, she corrects him, " _At_ him—he never replies."

"No, Sherlock always replies to _everything_. He's Mr Punchline... He will... outlive _God_ trying to have the last word."

Irene's eyebrow raises at the references to one of the muggles' religions. Comprehending what the man had just said, she asks him, "Does that make me special?"

"...I don't know. Maybe," John admits.

Irene smiles, grabbing a quill that apparently, has no need of ink, she starts to write. "Are you jealous?"

"...We're not a couple," John defends.

"Yes, you are," she replies nonchalantly. "There," she says, holding up the notebook to show him the page, even though he is too far away to read it, as proof.

> _I'm not dead. Let's have dinner._

She snaps the notebook close with her hand and John turns away for a moment before turning back to her.

Quietly, he starts, "W-who-who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes? But, for the record, if anyone out there... still cares... I'm not actually gay."

"Well, I... _am_..." Irene points out, staring at him momentarily. Narrowing her eyes, she adds, "Look at us both."

John laughs ruefully, thinking about what she said—when an orgasmic sigh echoes throughout the room. Both Irene and John immediately look at the direction of the sigh.

Unseen by both of them, Sherlock stares at the notebook in his hands, seeing the beautiful penmanship once more before snapping it close, placing it in his pockets and walking away rapidly, not bothering to use any magic.

John starts to walk to the sound's direction but is stopped by Irene who holds out her hand. She looks at him pointedly, understanding that Sherlock left not because of her message—since Sherlock must have been eavesdropping and hiding from them for a long time—but because he doesn't want to face both her and John after being caught.

"I don't think so, do you?"

* * *

In a sort of trance, Sherlock walks until he reaches King's Cross Station and goes through the brick wall between nine and ten. He enters the Hogwarts Express after obliviating the ticket inspector and conductor to get into Hogsmeade. When he was walked to Hogwarts with his legs burning (though he doesn't feel it), he reaches his classroom and sees that the door is kicked in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] I believe that most students nearing graduation would have loved to stay in Hogwarts for Christmas since it would be their last Christmas as students in Hogwarts. I also think there would be more muggle-borns around this generation and more students (probably above thirteen-years old) would loved to stay at Hogwarts because Wizard Christmas is awesome.
> 
> [2] Sherlock is actually incredibly great with kids. We all know that. I think he would like the innocence and curiosity of First Years—especially muggle-borns since they would be the ones who would ask the most questions.
> 
> [3] The full moon was on December 21, 2010.
> 
> [4] Mary, John, Mycroft, and irene are the few people who knows Sherlock is an unregistered Animagus. Mycroft knows, being an unregistered Animagus himself—a Leopard—but no one knows except Sherlock and not-Anthea. John knows since, well, he's JOHN. Mary knows because Sherlock was caught by her in accident. Irene knows since she found out through incredible sources.
> 
> [5] This is the time Sherlock casted the Taboo.
> 
> [6] This is when Sherlock heard his name.


	8. The Restoring

Pausing several feet away from the classroom door, which Sherlock knows has been kicked open, he slowly looks around the school corridor, his deductions in complete full blast mode. Walking with his hand on the wall, he notices hints of mud on the ground which he is perfectly sure came from the ground near Professor Hagrid's hut.

The most probable victim for the moment would be Professor Hudson, Professor Hagrid or Mary.

Sherlock inspects the four different patterns of muddy footprints on the ground once more. A pair of footprints had been calmly walking in front of the other three pairs. He notices that one of the four pairs of footprints had been awkwardly walking backwards while another pair of footprints seems to be moving forwards albeit awkwardly.

The last pair of footprints shows struggle—barely using their feet and had been desperately trying to escape.

Looking to his left, Sherlock sees a small scratch on the stony wall. Placing his finger on the start of the scratch, he follows the movement. It must be an immense struggle considering that this is a stony wall and a fingernail has been used to scratch it.

It isn't a dent, per se, but traces of fingernail polish can be seen on the wall. Knowing only a few of the staff with long fingernails, he narrows down the identity of the victim.

Professor Hudson.

Slowly moving around, he takes a quick glance on something on the other side of the corridor—a wand... and not just any wand—Professor Hudson's wand. That confirms it all.

A burning rage ignites in the pit of Sherlock's stomach as he stares intensely at the door to his classroom. How dare they? And in his classroom where he is shown utter respect? They are doing everything they can to show that he is not being respected. He is being insulted as a professor and as a person. Most importantly, he is being insulted by using Professor Hudson. He glares murderously at those who dare try to hurt Professor Hudson. To make her struggle like a muggle!

Finally, Sherlock opens the door to his classroom and walks in as arrogantly and as calmly as he can to grab control of the room, and to control the heavy amount of rage and thoughts of homicide in his aura. He would rather have those be unnoticed by the other men in the room.

In front of the classroom board, on top of the small stage where he usually teaches his students, Professor Hudson sits on one of the classroom chairs. Behind her stands Neilson, the very same man who had raided Lady Adler's place. He holds a pistol with a silencer on his hand and is aiming the blasted thing at the back of Professor Hudson's head.

' _A muggle at Hogwarts?_ ' he thinks to himself for a moment before he looks at the other two men who are roaming around the room, looking at him intently. ' _Oh, of course._ ' The two other men in question are watching him, but Sherlock can already make out where their wands are hidden.

What happened to the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy?

Professor Hudson, who had already been crying, starts to sob at the sight of Sherlock finally strolling inside the classroom. Sherlock shows his wand and arrogantly places it on the desk nearest in front of him.

"Oh, Sherlock! Sherlock!" Professor Hudson sobs.

"Don't snivel, Professor Hudson. It'll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet—" he glares at Neilson— "what a tender world that would be."

"Oh please! Sorry, Sherlock!' Professor Hudson continues to sob, looking at Sherlock pleadingly.

"I believe you have something that we want, Professor Holmes," Neilson dares speak to him casually.

"Then why don't you ask for it?" he asks just as casually and calmly.

Sherlock walks closer to Professor Holmes and the two other men with Neilson step forward a bit but makes no other move. He holds out his right hand towards her and she whimpers but moves towards his hand. He gently turns back the sleeve of her right arm and quickly sees the bruises on her wrist.

"Sher..." Professor Hudson cries.

"I've been asking this one," Neilson continues, "she doesn't seem to know anything."

Looking up slightly, Sherlock observes the whole of Professor Hudson and sees that the shoulder of her robe has been ripped at the seam, exposing her skin. He continues to ignore Neilson's irritatingly conversational tone and let him talk whilst he continues to deduce the extent of how much they had hurt her.

"But you know what I'm asking for, don't you Professor Holmes?"

Looking at the cut on Professor Hudson's right cheek, his eyes move quickly to Neilson's right hand which is still holding the pistol. The danger in his soul rises as he sees the blood on the ring of Neilson's hand. He quickly deduces that Neilson had backhanded her from the small facts. Raising his head, Sherlock glances at Neilson and chooses target points on the muggle's face.

 _Carotid Artery  
_ _Skull  
_ _Eyes_

He looks down and chooses target points on Neilson's chest.

 _Artery  
Lungs_  
_Ribs_

Satisfied, he raises his eyes towards Neilson's once more. "I believe I do," he answers lowly.

Professor Hudson cries once more when Sherlock releases her, straightening up in a way that would put any traditional pureblood Slytherins to shame.

"Oh, please, Sherlock," Professor Hudson pleads.

"First, get rid of your boys," Sherlock commands Neilson.

"Why?" Neilson dare asks.

"I dislike being outnumbered. It makes for too much _stupid_ in the room."

Glancing at his men, Neilson hesitates and sighs before finally saying, "You two, go outside—"

"—then move towards the end of the Apparition wards and disapparate," Sherlock cuts him off. Looking at Neilson, he sneers at him and says, "Don't try to trick me. You know who I am. It doesn't _work_."

The two other wizards slowly leave the room without taking Sherlock's wand—' _Idiots,_ ' Sherlock thinks—and they all hear the faint steps walk away further and further.

"Next, you can stop pointing that gun at me." He looks at the gun pointedly which had moved from Professor Hudson's head towards him.

"So you can point a wand at me?"

"I'm unarmed," Sherlock claims, stepping back and spreading his arms to either side, and pointedly looking at his own wand on the desk in front of him.

"Mind if I check?" Neilson asks sarcastically.

"Oh, I insist," Sherlock mocks.

Neilson moves away from Professor Hudson and she whimpers nervously.

"Don't do anything..." she whispers as a warning.

Walking over to Sherlock, Neilson starts patting his pockets and flicking his robes open whilst Sherlock stands with his arms still spread open. When Neilson checks his back for any other weapons, Sherlock rolls his eyes for Professor Hudson to see. With a wave of his hand, he summons his own wand back before using it to silently cast a curse to temporarily blind Neilson. He isn't going to reveal his wandless abilities to those he does not trust.

Neilson screams and Sherlock uses the opportunity to headbutt him. Neilson quickly falls down onto one of the classroom desks and Sherlock viciously turns the wand in his hand.

"Moron," he mutters at the unconscious body of Neilson.

Sherlock hurries over to Professor Hudson and drops to his knees in front of her. He strokes her face as he quietly reassures her.

"Oh, thank you," Professor Hudson thanks tearfully.

"You're alright now... You're alright..."

As she nods, she whispers, "Yes..."

Looking over his own shoulder, he glares at Neilson's immobile form and decides to start targeting the man's weak points the muggle way as revenge.

* * *

"Did you—" John starts to ask Irene when he believes that Sherlock has most likely already left the warehouse.

"No, I didn't," Irene replies, putting her hand down. "I suppose I should have expected it."

"You couldn't have just told him," John accuses her.

"I told you I can't."

"But you told _me_."

"Some matters are too complicated to be done. It's essential that my being alive should remain hidden from Sherlock. Although, there is no use in hiding it from the professor. I should have expected that he'd follow you here."

"Where _are_ we?"

"Battersea Power Station."

"No, I know _where_ we are, but I don't know why you chose this place."

"It's a place where no one would be able to detect—well, no wizard would detect. I casted a rather complicated charm of my invention that would keep this place hidden from prying eyes. One can only enter through Portkey or a Side-Along Apparition with me."

"Like a Fidelius Charm."

"Precisely, except with more special features."

"Then how could Sherlock have followed us here?"

Irene smirks. "Sherlock Holmes is much more powerful than I thought. No wizard could have gone through my wards—not even the dark lord could have been able to locate me. Although, it was probably because I concentrated on keeping dear old Jimmy out and placed strong specific charms only against _him_ ," she adds thoughtfully. "Even so, I wouldn't have thought that Sherlock would still be able to come to this location easily. What astonishes me is the fact that I sensed that he only used a simple enough spell to locate us—a Taboo—I suspect—of his name. Wizards other than Lord Moriarty might locate me, but none should have come here as easily as Sherlock Holmes."

"Then you should know that it would be wiser to fear Sherlock more rather than the dark lord."

"I have no fear for either of them," Irene replies. "It doesn't matter whether one is more powerful than the other. I work for myself and for my survival alone. I don't care about anything else, just so long as I live."

"You were housed in Slytherin, weren't you?" John asks her.

Irene chuckles. "I am familiar with your school houses. Perhaps, I would have been if I was taught the magical arts in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"...Where _did_ you learn, then?"

Irene smirks. "John Watson, I would call _you_ a Slytherin since you are subtly trying to gain information about me through casual conversation."

John nods. "People have the same traits as any other houses. It's what they pride themselves in that wins the house's favour."

"A Ravenclaw, too," Irene responds. "Well, since this meeting has come to its end, I don't suppose I can ever gain your help from recovering something of mine from Sherlock. We better leave."

"I reckon we should. So, what is it this time? Portkey or Apparition?"

Irene raises a hand towards John, as if reaching for a handshake. John grumbles but walks towards her quietly and takes her hand. They both whisk away through Apparition and end up in the Forbidden Forest, at the edge of the Apparition wards.

"I'll see you again, Sir Watson."

"Lady Adler," he replies before she turns on the spot and disapparates without a noise—not even a slight hint of a cracking sound. It is no wonder she can be the sneakiest human being alive.

Realising that Lady Adler could be a powerful witch herself, John starts to walk towards the castle once more. Knowing Sherlock's private quarters is easier to get into from inside the classroom instead of their linked quarters, he goes up the castle to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom to check up on the professor. Upon reaching the classroom, however, he sees the note and looks around the corridor before opening the door to get inside.

> _CRIME IN PROGRESS_   
>  _PLEASE DISTURB_

"What's going on?" he asks as he enters quickly. "Jeez..." he mutters at the sight of Neilson—who is gagged and bound on the chair where Professor Hudson was moments before.

The muggle on the chair has blood running down his face and seems to have a broken nose. Professor Hudson is sitting on one of the classroom chairs with her arms around herself whilst Sherlock is sitting on a chair near Neilson, holding the pistol in one hand and his wand on the other.

"Professor Hudson's been attacked by a muggle American. I'm restoring balance to the universe," Sherlock informs John.

John, on the other hand, goes over to Professor Hudson immediately. "Oh, Professor Hudson. Merlin, are you alright?" Putting his arm around her shoulder, he stares at Neilson. "Jesus, what have they done to you?"

Professor Hudson starts to sob. "Oh, I'm just being so silly!"

"No, no..." John comforts her.

Standing up and walking towards the fireplace, still aiming at Neilson, Sherlock speaks to John. "Downstairs. Take her downstairs to the hospital wing and look after her."

John stands up and helps her. "Alright... It's alright..." he reassures her softly. "I'll have a look at that."

"I'm fine. I'm fine," she insists, removing herself from him and walking out of the room.

John, then, walks over to Sherlock whose glare is still on Neilson.

"Are you gonna tell me what's going on?" John asks.

"I expect so. Now go."

The two look at each other for a few more seconds before both glowering at Neilson who receives two murderous glares. John finally leaves the room.

Sherlock goes towards the fireplace as John walks away. He grabs some Floo Powder and throws it into the fireplace. As the green flame glows, he says, "The Headmaster's Office."

Just then, he hears the headmaster ask what is going on.

"Lestrade. We've had a break-in at Hogwarts here at the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. Send the _least_ irritating Aurors and some mediwizards."

"What? Are you alright? Who's hurt?" the headmaster asks in a panic.

"Oh no no no no no, we're fine. No, it's the—er—it's the burglar. He's got himself rather badly injured."

Neilson looks at Sherlock worryingly.

"Injured how?"

"Oh, a few broken ribs... fractured skull... suspected punctured lung." Sherlock looks at Neilson at that, who in turn, looks back at him with a short amount of fear.

"Sherlock... How did he get those injuries?" the headmaster asks. Sherlock smirks, knowing that Lestrade has an idea of what had actually transpired.

"He fell out of a window."

Looking at the fear in Neilson's eyes, Sherlock slowly closes the Floo Network.

* * *

Irene apparates back to the abandoned power stating before going below its skeleton and to one of her secret underground boltholes. It is a complete contrast to the abandoned power station above her place. The place almost looks exactly like her flat in Belgravia except that there are no windows.

She sighs as she walks through the room, removing everything she had been wearing, and dresses herself to only her dressing gown and lingerie. She stands by in the middle of the room, sighing once more to herself, before starting to pack and prepare herself for a disguise.

* * *

"What happened?" Mary asks as they enter the hospital wing which is just under the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.

"There was an attack in the DADA classroom but Sherlock's handling it," John informs her as they sit Professor Hudson on one of the beds.

Mary quickly offers a Calming Draught but Professor Hudson politely declines, "I can manage on my own. A student might need it."

John starts putting some antiseptic on the cut on her cheek. She flinches.

"Ooh, it stings," she says as John nods at her.

Moments later, all three of them see something fall down past the window just where they are all standing and crashes when whatever it is lands. John and Professor Hudson look at each other whilst Mary stands up to inspect it.

"Ooh, that was right on my plants," Professor Hudson comments as John and Mary look over the window, hearing an agonised moan.

* * *

Finally done with the packing, Irene sighs and lies down on the bed. She closes her eyes for a while. She isn't tired. Far from that, she is ready for action—ready to run... again. Still, nothing beats the feeling of red silk on her bed.

Looking at her bedside table, she stares at the Protean-Charmed black leather-bound notebook again. Thinking mischievously, she summons a quill and the notebook with a flick of her wrist before starting to write.

* * *

As Sherlock waits in the castle's balcony near Neilson's landing site, he hears it.

 _Ahhh_...

He freezes at the sound—not wanting to grab the notebook, and still not recovering from what had occurred earlier. Alas, he chastises himself as he goes through his robe's pocket to get the notebook.

> _I would like to add that I am not, in fact, an Inferi._   
>  _Just a tiny confirmation from me._   
>  _In case you're still filled with disbelief._

Sherlock shakes his head, clenching his jaws as he stares at the blasted notebook in his hands, unaware that a few passing-by students are staring and whispering about him.

"Professor Holmes does _not_ look happy with that notebook," the Gryffindor boy, David, says. [1]

"I don't understand why you Gryffindors are so obsessed with Professor Holmes and his stupid notebook," the Slytherin boy, Antonius, replies.

Meanwhile, Sherlock receives another message from Lady Adler.

> _Even if I was an Inferi, dinner's still on the table._

Sherlock stares at the beautiful penmanship which he knows can only be written by a beautiful woman, with a face that a man might die for. After realising how long he has been staring at the notebook, he sighs once more, placing the notebook inside his robes. Sherlock watches and stares hard at Neilson's twitching body on the school grounds to get his mind off of Lady Irene Adler.

Meanwhile, with the students.

"We told you, Anton. Gryffindor House made a betting pool about Professor Holmes and his probably girlfriend," David tells him.

Antonius rolls his eyes. "Thank goodness I was not sorted into your house. I might have died from exasperation... and don't call me Anton."

"You're too much of a Slytherin to be in Gryffindor, mate," Mark, a Hufflepuff, replies, patting Antonius in the back with a smile.

"Of course," Antonius responds, "but for your betting pool, I have to say, looking at Professor Holmes now..."

The three boys all turn to look at the professor who grabs his notebook once more and reads the message that would have read—

> _Though I would probably be digesting you._

—if they were able to read it from so far.

"He looks exasperated, fond, respectful, and annoyed all at the same time at whoever is messaging him. Professor Holmes probably does have _some_ sort of feelings for this woman but I don't think it's more than that." The Slytherin shrugs.

"I still think the professor's in love," David insists. "I don't want to lose my money on this betting pool. It's too good."

"I really don't care... at all... to be honest." Antonius shrugs once more.

"Of course, you don't..." Mark laughs as they all finally move away from the professor and to the Quidditch Pitch to meet with their other friends and hang out and play Quidditch, of course.

Meanwhile, Sherlock finally sees some mediwizards run towards where Neilson's twitching body is and decides to finally walk away from the balcony to go to the headmaster's office. Lestrade greets him with a small fondly exasperated shake of his head.

As the mediwizards go through the nearest Floo network—which is in the Infirmary—to send Neilson to St. Mungo's, Sherlock and Lestrade stand by, watching them. Sherlock smirks to himself at the thought that Lestrade coming alone, knowing that only _he_ is the least irritating wizard who could come off as an Auror, and no one else.

"...and exactly how many times _did_ he fall out the window?"

"It's all a bit of a blur, Headmaster... I lost count."

Looking at him, Lestrade decides to walk away as Sherlock goes to Professor Hudson's office. When he reaches her office, he enters, carefully wiping his fee on the doormat. Professor Hudson, John, and Mary are all sitting around her desk with Professor Hudson looking rather shaken.

"She'll have to sleep upstairs in our linked quarters tonight. We need to look after her," John starts.

"No," Professor Hudson insists.

"Of course, but she's _fine_ ," Sherlock replies.

"No, she's not. Look at her!" John says pointedly. "She's got to take some time away from Hogwarts. She can go and stay with her sister. Healer's orders."

Sherlock grabs a cupcake from the basket of it which is usually reserved for Professor Hudson's Hufflepuffs. "Don't be absurd," Sherlock comments.

"She's in _shock_ , for Merlin's sake... and all over some bloody stupid Pandora's box."

"Pandora's box?" Mary asks. "Lady Adler's box?"

John nods in reply to her. "Where is it, anyway?" John asks Sherlock.

"Safest place I know," Sherlock says, wiping his mouth and looking at Professor Hudson who reaches in her robes and pulls out the said box before handing it to him.

John and Mary look at the exchange in surprise.

"You left it in the pocket of your second best dressing robe, you clot." She laughs. "I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry."

"Thank you," Sherlock tells her sincerely as he tosses the box and pockets it. "Shame on you, John Watson."

"Shame on _me_?!"

"Professor Hudson leave Hogwarts?" Placing a protective arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer to him, Sherlock says, "The Wizarding World would fall." [2]

Professor Hudson laughs and strokes Sherlock's hand on her shoulder. Sherlock chuckles gently with Professor Hudson, smiling gently at her as well. John and Mary both smile at the sight of them.

John thinks deeply that this man—this powerful wizard—who has his arm gently and fondly wrapped around his mother-figure protectively is the same man who had thrown a man out of a window a few moments back.

One thing people should know: Never mess with Sherlock bloody Holmes.

* * *

"Where is it now?" John asks as the three of them walk towards their own linked quarters—John is starting to think of calling it their own common room.

"Where no one will look," Sherlock answers just as Mary says the password and they all enter the _common room_.

John pours him and Mary some wine. The two of them stand a few feet away from Sherlock just as he picks up his violin and looks out of the window, trying to tune it. Mary sits on the arm of John's chair, looking at Sherlock.

"Whatever's on that box is more than just pictures..." John starts.

"Yes, it is," Sherlock replies, still tuning his violin casually.

"So... she's alive then," John begins. Mary looks up at him in question. He gives her a nonverbal look which would clearly mean that he would tell her about it later. "How are we feeling about that?" he asks the professor.

Just then, they hear the clock chime to toll the hour. Sherlock sucks in a breath.

"Happy New Year, John, Mary..."

"Do you think you'll be seeing her again?" Mary asks.

Turning around, Sherlock takes his bow and flips it before playing ' _Auld Lang Syne,_ ' pointedly looking at his two friends. They take the hint and drop the matter entirely. John sits on his armchair and Mary scoots closer to him. They both sit as Sherlock plays, looking at the view by the window.

* * *

As a muggle, Irene walks along the street when she hears something she never knew she would ever hear in a very long time. A simple chime alert.

Taking her notebook, she looks at the quick and messy handwriting one would expect from a mad genius.

> _Happy New Year._   
>  _SH_

Looking at the message intently, she smiles to herself before continuing onwards.

* * *

"So..." Mary starts as she and John walk through the school grounds at night. "' _She's alive, then?_ ' What does that mean?"

John laughs humourlessly. "Irene Adler's alive."

Mary's eyes widen at that. "What? How?" she asks. She should have expected it. Irene would not go on without a fight. Of course, she should have known that Irene would never have let herself die like that—die so simply, so quietly. Irene's too powerful a witch for that.

"Broken through the records; used a simple muggle switcheroo. It's hard to predict a witch or wizard when he or she is giftedly intelligent in both the Wizarding World and the Muggle World," John tells her.

"I thought Lady Adler is a pureblood?" Mary asks.

"Well, apparently, despite being a pureblood, like _Sherlock_ , she knows her way around in the muggle world. She must have, if she is as successful as she is when we met her—juggling both worlds in the palm of her hands. Those are the most dangerous ones—wizards and witches with open minds. She's much more powerful than Lord Moriarty, if that's the case... but at least, she isn't... homicidal like he is."

"Alright... She's alive, then... What I don't understand is why you had just asked Sherlock what he feels about that."

"Well, she did just appear out of nowhere. Sherlock found out through that notebook of his. It must have been too much since he's been brooding over her these past few days—"

"Oh! So you picked that one up, too! I thought you've become incredibly too dim when it comes to Sherlock's feelings."

"I _am_ incredibly too dim when it comes to Sherlock... which is why it means something when _I_ myself am doubting things and eliminating my previous thoughts for this new fact."

"Spoken like Sherlock." Mary smirks.

"He's contagious," John replies.

"Suppose you think she could be his secret girlfriend?" Mary suggests, chuckling.

"Oh, the whole bloody school is thinking about that," John says, laughing, "but I doubt it. Sherlock may probably have some emotion or whatever he has in his heart for Lady Adler, but a _girlfriend_ is just pushing it." John laughs. "Could you even imagine Sherlock having a girlfriend?"

"What? Sherlock's a human being, too, you know! You're practically he's boyfriend. I thought you two were a couple before you started chatting me up."

John rolls his eyes. "I'll always be haunted by this assumption, won't I?"

Mary kisses him on the lips. "Of course, you will."

John sighs dramatically before smiling fondly and exasperatedly at Mary. Mary, in turn, laughs and pulls him to walk with her and he lets her drag him. She tries to conceal the thoughts in her head.

' _John now. Past later._ '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Fact: The six Seventh Years that I keep writing in between some of the dialogues are based on my group of friends. I'm the only girl in the group though. The names are different but the first letter of their names are based on us. Also, their houses are also based on our Pottermore houses. 
> 
> Hence:  
> Me, A—a Ravenclaw  
> D—a Gryffindor  
> A—a Slytherin  
> T—a Slytherin  
> K—a Hufflepuff  
> M—a Hufflepuff
> 
> [2] Well, I can't say "England would fall" since Hogwarts is in Scotland.
> 
> ...
> 
> Also, I just want to ask what I could call their linked quarters. I don't like using those terms, it's weird. Can anyone think of a name that would sound: _______ Common Room. I can't call it Baker Street Common Room since they're not even in London. 221B doesn't make any sense but I did use 221B as Sherlock's room in the Three Broomsticks.


	9. The Teasing

In the school's Potions Lab, Sherlock quietly makes a potion from a recipe he had written himself, going through a number of books and different ingredients as well to perfect the potion. Lady Adler's box rests on the table beside his horrible amount of mess.

Molly, the Potions Mistress, watches as she goes through her shelves, and thinks of what lessons to teach her students, and how to help the struggling ones learn the way of Potion-Making. It isn't an easy subject. She is always on-guard in case of accidents. She is known to be cautious but kind, but damn does she get angry when one tries to sabotage the work of another.

People often underestimate her ability to be stern because they often compare her with Severus Snape, one of the best Potions Master Hogwarts ever had. The difference is that former Headmaster Snape's sternness was and is much more known than his brilliance in Potions—which reminds Molly of _another_ brilliant person known for his sternness.

Looking at what Sherlock is making, she finally asks, "What are you doing?"

"Finding any traps," Sherlock mumbles, still adding ingredients to the cauldron.

"Using a potion?"

"Yes."

"And what kind of potion is that?"

"A potion that would let me see any—hopefully only dark—spells used on an object."

She thinks hard. "Why don't you just use a spell that would help you catch dark curses and traps?" she asks him. "Isn't that your specialty since you're the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor?" she asks.

Molly looks over his shoulder to see a complicated amount of instructions on a piece of parchment—complicated even for her—and she can make out erasures and notes on the side in Sherlock's writing. She can't tell whether he had been working on this potion for a long time already, or he just copied it from a book and modified some parts of it.

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock tells her, not even looking at her, "of course, that would have been the first thing I would have done. I have tried every spell, every counter-curse, and every diagnosis that would detect any dark curses or traps on this little... _nuisance_. So far, there does not seem to be any. I don't trust it. I have to be thorough. I _need_ to be thorough—knowing my opponent, I have to be."

"Your opponent?"

"A formidable one."

Molly nods to herself, not bothering to ask why Sherlock is being so incredibly vague.

"What will the potion do?"

"It will visually show any spell on it—even the most untraceable ones..."

"But where did you get the idea of such a potion? I've never heard of anything like it."

"I made it myself."

"Did you modify an already existing potion?"

"No."

Molly's brows rise up in admiration, but not really surprised. "When did you—?"

"This morning."

Oh... She thought he had been researching about this for a long time.

"How can you be so sure it would work?" she asks.

"I can't," Sherlock replies, "or at least, not yet. There had been trials and errors, and they have all been _swimmingly_ illuminating." 

Molly watches as Sherlock waves his wand a lot of times at the cauldron. At first, they were nonverbal, after that, he starts to speak. There is a series of incantations Sherlock is using—ones she isn't familiar of. It doesn't seem to be in Latin. Sherlock finally stops and she watches as the potion seems to have turned into an almost invisible colour. It isn't just clear like water. One would believe there isn't a potion inside the cauldron, except for the fact that a small amount of smoky substance is flowing through the invisible liquid.

"Ahhh, yes! The precise invisibility I wanted!"

Sherlock grabs a pipette which Molly knows is not part of the equipment in her lab—and she suspects to be of Muggle origin—and takes a small amount of the potion. Smiling, Sherlock looks at the pipette proudly before looking back at her.

"Let's see if it works then."

Sherlock gestures at a book on another table in the Potions lab.

"I placed some incredibly dark and subtle untraceable traps on this book—curses I believe I would be placed in Azkaban for—" Molly looks at him in horror—"oh relax, no one would know... If this works, when I drop a single drop, it would..."

Sherlock drops one drop of the potion on the book. Immediately, the air around the book changes colour, as if smoke is coming out of the said book. There is a number of different colours surrounding the smoke and it changes from smoky to almost opaque. Molly can say to herself that it looks beautiful before she remembers that all these colourful and beautiful lights represent dark spells and curses. Sherlock, on the other hand, grins and jumps excitedly.

"I've found it! I've found it!" [1] he shouts excitedly, jumping around the room with the hand that is still holding the pipette and his fist up in the air. Molly smiles at this display of excitement from Sherlock—he is such a nerd.

Had he discovered a gold mine, greater delight could not have shone upon his features. [1]

"What did it do exactly?" Molly finally asks when Sherlock had calmed down slightly.

"Magic!"

Sherlock sighs in victory and his face instantly changes to something more composed and more unemotional. Quickly, he grabs something—a sort of small box—and looks it at thoughtfully.

"What do you mean?" Molly asks.

"The smoke you had seen earlier _is_ the spell itself. The potion would guide you to visually see the magic that surrounds an object—much stronger than the usual diagnostic spell since not only will it help you detect which part of the object has the spell, it can show how strong it was used as well. I suppose I should try it on a human as well, but that's not important right now. The colour determines what spell was used—it takes the same colour as the light emitted when the spell was casted. I've spent a lot of research in different libraries to determine the original colours of spells that does not emit light from the wand, and I will use it to help with my diagnosis."

"...Is this what you've been doing all this time?"

"Yes... Now, the moment I've been waiting for."

Taking a deep breath, he takes the pipette once again and drops one drop on the top of the small box. A white smoke quickly appears and clouds the box. A gold smoke appears a few moments later. After a while, an odd silver one appears as well. The smoke seems to look solid, as if they're not smoke as it surrounds the box. Sherlock quickly grabs a book which Molly suspects is the book with the original colour of the spells. Sherlock frowns. 

A moment later, Sherlock drops to the ground to be at eye-level with the box. Sherlock stands up slowly and goes through the book before sighing and closing it.

"What do the colours on the smoke mean?" Molly finally asks.

"The white smoke indicates that _Diminuendo_ was used to shrink the box [2]. I'm not surprised by that... For the gold light, I am perfectly certain that the charm used was the same charm used by the Marauders on Potter's map. The one that insults former Headmaster Snape should he try to use it or get his hands on it [3]. I had the liberty of discovering it in my first year. Unfortunately, it got confiscated at the end of my First Year and I had to give it back. [4] The silver smoke, according to Merlin's book here—" he raises the book he is holding a bit—"is the original light colour for the Anti-Unlocking Charms [5]. The opacity of the smoke indicates how strong the spells were casted."

"That's it? Shouldn't that be easier to open?" Molly asks.

"I also noticed a deep grey colour inside the smoke—a light I have never seen before," Sherlock says thoughtfully, looking down at the box which is now rid of all smoke and colours.

"Oh?"

"It's strongly casted but so untraceable the potion only showed a small part of it. It's strong but there is a chance of weakening it. The problem is: I have not seen a spell with that colour before. Even Avada Kedavra does not emit a dark light. It takes a vibrant green light. So what is this? How is that possible? _A_ _dark light_?" Sherlock thinks to himself.

"Perhaps you're not the only one who still invents something new for the Wizarding World," Molly quietly breaks the silence, not liking the unamused aura Sherlock is giving off.

"Of course," Sherlock whispers to himself. His head snaps towards Molly which causes her to step back in surprise. Sherlock looks at her determinedly. "Molly, we need to go to St. Bart's."

"Don't you mean St. Mungo's?" she asks.

"No. St. Bartholomew's Hospital. I know you work there from time to time in the summer breaks. I need an x-ray," Sherlock says, standing up and grabbing his robe. He transfigures it to a muggle coat once more and places something inside his pocket. "We need to talk to the headmaster."

"Why?"

Sherlock looks at her. "I would have thought you know that only wizards who work there are allowed to floo directly into St. Bart's? or the fact that we can't floo from Hogwarts without permission from the headmaster?"

"Oh. Oh, yes, of course." She blushes. 

Molly looks at Sherlock, still confused about his need for St. Bart's and embarrassed about her idiocy, but goes to her fireplace and grabs some floo powder. Headmaster Lestrade's voice echoes throughout the lab.

"Molly? What is it?" he asks.

"Sherlock and I are going to St. Bart's."

"A muggle hospital? Not St. Mungo's?" he asks.

"I need muggle means to get something I need," Sherlock informs the headmaster from behind Molly. "We need your permission so that this fireplace would be able to go directly towards the Leaky Cauldron."

"Ugh, alright," the headmaster replies.

The fireplace's flames goes out and they throw floo powder again. Green flames ignite within and Sherlock steps inside the flames before saying, "The Leaky Cauldron," slowly and precisely. Molly follows him. She almost falls on the ground but thankfully, Sherlock catches her. She blushes but composes herself quickly completely.

"You look too much of a witch to go through London," he comments at her. "Do you have any muggle clothing?"

"Er, no," she replies, "just a few fancy dresses like from... Christmas."

Sherlock nods. "I'll wait here while you transfigure your own clothes. You've been through London, I assume. So, you'd know what they wear."

A few moments later, Molly, who is now wearing a green-striped shirt and jeans with her hair braided on one side, and Sherlock, who is wearing his usual suit and his coat, are sitting in a cab in silence, going towards St. Bartholomew's Hospital. 

When they arrived, they arrive and are given access towards Molly's usual lab. Sherlock notices that there are some Wizarding Equipment as well. He figures that this lab is for both muggle and wizarding means to help muggles with their injuries.

Sherlock quickly goes into his determined scientific mode. Molly wears a lab coat that looks almost identical to a wizarding robe, but instead of being lime green, it's white—perhaps to differentiate the wizards from the muggles. I suppose it would help wizards know who else are wizards.

Molly goes through her equipment and continues her own research in Science to help both the Muggle and Wizarding World.

Sherlock places something Molly didn't see inside the x-ray machine.

"Wouldn't it be confusing to differentiate dark spells and non-dark spells since some of them have the same colour?" Molly asks suddenly.

"No. Dark spells have a much more vibrant or concentrated light while non-dark spells glow brighter and are paler than vibrant," Sherlock replies, looking at the computer.

Sherlock sees the interior parts of the box shown in the x-ray. It shows some smoky cloud on the inside. He raises a brow at that. Magical substance that seems to have metallic components. Odd. He can see small objects inside Lady Adler's box. Of course, it seems to be a whole library on the inside. He raises his brows at the concentrated amount of Diminuendo used to shrink a whole room.

There seems to be some engineering work on the box surrounding the shrunk library itself. Eight small dark areas are placed on the corners of the box and some more dark areas scattered on it. Sherlock looks at the x-ray exasperatedly and admirably.

"Is that a box?" Molly asks. 

"It's a Pandora's box," Sherlock replies.

"Is it the same one you experimented your potion on earlier?"

"Yup," Sherlock pops the 'p.'

"And you're x-raying it?"

"Yes, I am."

"It belongs to a magical person... Whose box is it?" she asks with fake enthusiasm.

"A woman's."

Molly immediately thinks of Sherlock's determination of being thorough to find out if there are any dark spells on the box. She thinks about how much effort he had made to invent a potion and to go to different libraries, and now at St. Bart's just because of a box that belongs to a woman.

"Your girlfriend?" she asks.

Sherlock pauses and leans back, confused. "You think she's my girlfriend because I'm x-raying her possessions?"

Molly laughs nervously. "Well, we all do silly things."

"Yes..." Sherlock raises his head, as if some dawning realisation has struck him. He looks at Molly in approval. "They _do_ , don't they? Very silly..."

Molly finds it odd that Sherlock would not include himself as one of  _them_ —one of the population—one of everyone. She is confused as well to what is going on and what Sherlock had found in her words that would help him in whatever it is that he is doing. Sherlock stands up and grabs the box from the x-ray machine and holds it up.

"She often mentioned my room number in the Three Broomsticks and Leaky Cauldron," Sherlock says out loud, but more to himself than to Molly, "and she _loves_ to play games..."

"She does?" Molly asks. She, then, whispers to herself quietly, "She knows your room number?"

Sherlock pulls the box and types the rune that means 221B. His eyes light up in apprehension. The box sheds its cover and again, on the side, written in gold, it says:

> _**Wrong passcode, Professor Holmes.**_  
>  _**You have 2 attempts remaining.**_  
> 

Placing the box on the table in anger and exasperation, he sits back down. Molly looks down.

' _Irene Adler truly is a remarkable opponent, after all. Merlin, that woman,_ ' Sherlock thinks to himself.

* * *

A month later, Sherlock leads his Seventh Year students back towards their usual classroom after he and John, who is assisting him for the day, had shown the students one of the Duelling Classrooms the castle had provided for them to use. John walks behind the students so he could watch them carefully—Merlin knows how many times the students had done pranks whilst Sherlock's back is turned. 

When they reach the door, Sherlock stops in front of it, sniffing deeply and suspiciously. Some of the students hit his back but he doesn't say anything—too concentrated on the matter at hand.

"Professor?" a Hufflepuff boy, Mark, asks.

"Wasn't that door locked?" a Slytherin boy, Antonius, asks.

"Constant vigilance?" a Ravenclaw girl, Alvie, asks.

Sherlock doesn't answer but the students nearest to him had taken all of their wands out and are incredibly alert, waiting for their professor's instructions.

Sherlock looks back at the door to the classroom—which is surprisingly open despite it being locked by him when they left to go to the Duelling Classroom. John, meanwhile, walks towards Sherlock in front—which was difficult because of the forty or so students between them.

Sherlock finally slowly opens the door to the classroom, feeling a sort of deja vu from when Professor Hudson had been hurt. He pushes the door open just as John is nearly close to him. He raises a hand behind him to stop the students from following him. The students, though usually stubborn and curious, are smart enough to stay by the door—seeing nothing except their professor walking. Sherlock raises his head in surprise at what he sees.

"Sherlock?" John asks, walking towards the professor.

The students follow John, curious to what would surprise their usually cool professor.

"We have a client," Sherlock says casually.

"What, in your classroom?!" John finally follows Sherlock's gaze. "Ohhh..." John smiles, giving Sherlock a brief teasing look.

With her back turned, a witch writes on the classroom board with a chalk—without the use of magic. Sherlock knows that calligraphy all too well. She is fully clothed—thank Merlin—and wearing rich deep green flowy robes. To Sherlock's surprise, she looks incredibly at peace. Her hair flows down her back—something he hasn't seen before. 

She finally turns around and smiles. John and Sherlock had to hit some of the boys' heads to stop them from ogling at her. She looks  _beautiful_. Underneath her opened robes, she is wearing simple green pyjamas. She looks... comfortable but still emitting a powerful aura despite her cozy nature. How is that possible?

"Professor Holmes," she starts, looking surprised at the students in front of her.

"Lady Adler," he replies, walking towards her with his hands in his pockets.

They meet halfway in the room. Everyone else stays where they are.

"I apologise for the sudden intrusion. I did warn you but I believe you forgot to bring this?" She raises Sherlock's notebook and hands it over to him. He takes it and she places her free hand on her hip. How can she look _sexy_ just standing there? "How rude of you to forget such a valuable object," she adds.

The students whisper among themselves. A Ravenclaw girl points out to her friends that the woman is holding a similar notebook on her other hand. So, this is the woman their professor has been talking to. This is the woman who emitted that... _orgasmic_ sound.. But what's most important is that this is the woman who is probably Professor Holmes's girlfriend.  Well, now, they can't blame the professor. She looks, well... _beautiful_.

"I did not expect you would come back with this much... company," she adds.

"Shall we continue this in my quarters?" Sherlock tells her.

Lady Adler's brow rises at this. Some of his male students hoot at this while his female students giggle behind him. Sherlock rolls his eyes at his students. Ignoring them as well as Lady Adler's smirk, he looks down on her, closing in on her. The students just think that they might kiss which caused them to stop breathing. Lady Adler raises her chin indifferently. Sherlock tries to keep his dominance over her. She fights back with one look.

"You have some explaining to do," Sherlock replies in his stern and scolding manner that the students immediately realise that the woman is in actual trouble for angering their professor.

Lady Adler smiles, "Then explain, I shall. Your quarters, right?" Sherlock steps back and nods.

Smirking once more, Irene turns and walks towards the door that leads to Sherlock's private quarters which requires a password to open. To everyone's surprise (except Sherlock's), she enters gracefully. When she enters and the door closes behind her, Sherlock sighs and rubs his face with his palm.

"Sherlock, she knows your password," John whispers but some eavesdropping students hear, "and even _I_ don't know it."

"Trust her to know it," Sherlock whispers to himself exasperatedly. He shakes his head and in his normal tone, he tells John, "John, I believe you will have to continue this class on your own. I have... something to do."

The males laugh quietly because their professor is probably going to do someone, if you know what they mean. Ignoring everything around him, like in a daze, Professor Holmes follows Lady Adler to his quarters. John looks at this situation in disapproval. The students—especially the dirty-minded ones—all snigger and congratulate the professor for getting some. Some students look at those students disapprovingly but hiding a grin.

"Alright, class, you heard him. Go to your seats," John tells them, looking at the blackboard which still has the words:

> _Cruciamorvolum_ [6]
> 
> _Occulus Sanguinans_ [7]
> 
> _Fracmembrum_ [8]

Not knowing what these spells are and assuming they are dark, John quickly vanishes the words from the board before any of the students try to write them down.

* * *

Meanwhile, Sherlock goes to his quarters and in his bedroom, he sees Irene lying down on his bed lazily, as if she owns it. "The students will talk," she starts, stretching on the bed. Why she would move as if she is all too familiar with him, he wouldn't understand.

"Let them talk. They don't have any business in my private life," he replies, crossing his arms and leaning on the doorway to his bedroom.

"Oh, so I am part of your private life now, am I?" She smirks, propping herself up with an elbow.

Sherlock tries hard not to notice how regal she looks. Her hair is flowing down her body. He can see every curve in her body—the way she is up. One of her hands is resting on the arch of her hip. He can see one leg of hers exposed. Is she posing? She's not.

"How much had our _relationship_ grown, professor?"

"Don't flatter yourself."

"You always tell me not to flatter myself. You should listen to your own advices sometimes."

"What are you doing here?" he asks.

"I'm visiting."

"At Hogwarts?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I'm bored," she replies. Sitting up, she raises her own notebook again. "I've been writing but you were not replying."

"I never reply."

"Don't you?" She raises a brow.

"On occasion." He shrugs. "Now, would you mind telling me why you're _really_ here?" he asks her.

Irene sighs. "Tell me first why you would think I'm lying?" she asks, lying down as if about to listen to a bedtime story with her back facing him.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs. "You never go inside of Hogwarts unless you're in your Animagus form. You are wearing your pyjamas and it is obvious that you had been sleeping in my bed for hours already without my knowing. You didn't know I was coming back with my students but you are aware that it should have been my last class for today. You were planning on only meeting with me. You didn't write me since you somehow knew it would be risky. You're in trouble."

"As expected of the great Sherlock Holmes," she replies.

"What did you do?" he asks.

"I am _always_ in trouble." She sighs as if she's about to sleep. "The only difference is—"

"The only difference is how great the trouble is," he continues for her.

"Precisely."

Sherlock sighs. "Let's discuss this with John and Mary. You're our client for the day." For some reason, Lady Adler seems to perk up at the mention of the two healers.

She stands up and looks down on herself. "Mind if I take a shower first?" she asks.

Sherlock sighs, and gestures to his personal bathroom. "Go."

Smirking, she walks to his bathroom but not before taking off all of her clothes slowly as she walks backwards towards it. Sherlock doesn't dare remove his eyes from hers, not wanting to back down and look away, but also not wanting to back down and  _look_ down. When she reaches the door, he can see from the corner of his eyes that she is completely naked. She lingers longer from the door before closing it slowly.

Sherlock falls on his armchair when he hears the showers starting. He looks around the room and there is not a missing thing around. He can make out that the woman had, at least, touched his dressing gown, and had only touched his bed. Other than that, there is no indication that Lady Adler had done something else... but you can never be too careful when it comes to her.

He composes himself just as the door to his bathroom opens. Sherlock looks at her in the eye straight-on, uncaring that she is completely soaked from head to toe, naked. No, sir. No, he does not care at all. He looks at her eyes. She isn't smirking. She isn't smiling. Her face is unemotional, unreadable, and untraceable. She is looking at his eyes just as deeply as he is at hers. She looks at him fiercely, as if analysing him.

Irene looks at the man on the armchair intently. Exactly _who_ is this person? What does she make of him? What kind of wizard is he? Another pureblood who acts like a muggle? How confusing. How different. How beautiful. Who is this?

He can handle her smirk... but not like this. He couldn't handle her looking at him so  _intently_ , so  _seriously_ , so  _meaningfully_. It is too confusing and it is too different. He can't handle it.

After a while, her eyes move from his to his blue dressing robe. She moves from the doorway and grabs his favourite silk dressing robe. He simply watches her every move from the armchair. Sherlock watches as Irene places a hand on the robe, touching the silk before looking at Sherlock, completely forgetting about her own robes.

"Mind if I use it?" she asks, finally smirking.

He sighs. "Not at all," he replies with a dismissive wave of his hand.

' _Not at all,_ ' he thinks to himself, ' _it's just my favourite dressing robe, is all. It's just one of my own clothes. It's just one of my favourites. Sure, no one else dares touch my stuff but you can use it. It's just you being the first ever person to wear something of mine. No big deal. No. I don't mind._ '

He watches her put his dressing robe over her naked body. Nope. It is definitely no big deal.

"Where do we meet the two healers?" she asks as she ties the tie of the dressing robe around her waist tightly.

Sherlock never knew how good that dressing robe looks on someone like her.

"Follow me," he says, passing her by. 

Irene tries to ignore an aura of  _something_ that washes over her when he passes by.

"That door—" he gestures with his hand—"will lead to the linked quarters—a common room for a small amount of professors, of sorts. We'll wait for them and for the meantime, I'll have one of the elves bring us some tea."

"Alright, then," she replies, swaying her lips as she goes through the door.

Casting  _Expecto Patronum_ , Sherlock's wolf patronus takes form and he tell sit, "Go to John and tell him: John, go to Mary and bring her to the linked quarters. The client will be talking."

The wolf nods its head and goes towards where the classroom is. Hopefully, John can dismiss early instead.

"Tadkey," Sherlock summons. A house-elf immediately appears in front of him.

"Yes, Professor Holmes, sir?" Tadkey asks.

"Bring some tea and biscuits for four people in the linked quarters," he tells the elf.

"Yes, sir. On the way, sir." The elf vanishes and Sherlock moves towards the door, sighing as he holds the door handle.

On to battle, he supposes.

* * *

"I told you she was in her _pyjamas_! She went to his  _private quarters_!" Tacitus, the Slytherin, exclaims. "Tell him, David!"

"Yeah, it was her! She was the same woman I saw when we had that match with Slytherin!" David, the Gyrffindor, says. "I knew she looked familiar. She looks so different since her hair was down."

Mark, the Hufflepuff, cuts in, "Everyone in their Seventh Year saw her. I thought they were going to kiss, honestly! I never saw her before but—"

"—but they were definitely close," Alvie, the Ravenclaw, comments, "since she _knew_ his quarter's password. I heard Sir John  _himself_ say that even _he_ doesn't know Professor Holmes's password. I watched Professor Holmes the whole time. He wasn't surprised that she knows his password."

"You watched Professor Holmes the whole time?" Mark asks. "Does our little Alvie have a crush?"

Alvie hits Mark in the head. "Shut the hell up!"

"Guys, stop flirting!" Antonius exclaims, making both Mark and Alvie stop. "We have a much more important problem to deal with: We need to collect from so many people."

"I'm already doing my job!" Tacitus grins. All six Seventh Years leave the Great Hall and walk along together.

"You know, Professor Holmes didn't confirm that she's his girlfriend," Alvie points out.

"Confirm conshmirm!" Antonius exclaims. "Who the hell says that nowadays? You don't have to confirm it. It just happens."

"Oh, like you'd know, Mr. I-Never-Had-A-Girlfriend-Before?" Mark asks.

"That's rich, coming from you, Mr. I-Juggle-Two-Girls-At-The-Same-Time. Call yourself a loyal Hufflepuff," David says.

"Guys, stop it!" Alvie exclaims. "Okay, I love getting money, and so we just continue searching for things to prove all of this so we get to keep the money. We won but if they find out ways to disprove us, we need some things to counter their proofs."

"This is why I love having a Ravenclaw friend," Mark says. 

"Oh yeah, _friend_ ," David tells Antonius. The two ignore them.

"Is that Sir Watson and Madame Morstan?" Alvie asks, seeing the two healers run from the Hospital Wing.

"Wonder where they're going?" David asks. "You know what I'm thinking?" he asks.

"I haven't mastered Legilimency yet," Antonius says.

The others all groan and roll their eyes. Quietly, they follow the two healers and watch them open a door. As they peek in, before the door closes, they can see the woman and Professor Holmes talking to each other _closely_. They jump apart when the door opened. The door closes behind the two healers.

"I don't think we have to find counter proofs," Mark says. "I think we actually _are_ right."

"Well, we better collect some money, then," Antonius says, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Exact lines taken from the first moment Sherlock was presented in "A Study in Scarlet" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> [2] Diminuendo is the charm that shrinks an object. When casted, it emits a white light.
> 
> [3] This would be the charm on the Marauder's Map that insults Snape when he tried to check the map's secrets. In this fic, this would be how the writing "Wrong Passcode. You have 3 attempts remaining." and it only works for Sherlock.
> 
> [4] In Sherlock's second year, Fred and George would have been in Hogwarts by then and they would have stolen the Marauder's Map from Filch's office. This is why Sherlock didn't manage to get the Marauder's Map again.
> 
> [5] I just made the gold thing up. I also made up Merlin's part. I don't know who invented the spell so I should just write Merlin's name. He knows everything anyway.
> 
> [6] I made it up myself. Cruciamorvolum came from "Crucuabundus Mors Voluntaria" which means "Agonizing Suicide." It compels the target's body to kill oneself painfully. The target is fully aware he or she is being forced to die with his or her own hands. 
> 
> I wanted to make a combination of all three Unforgivable Curses. The unstoppable compelling comes from the idea of the Imperius Curse. The agonising choice of suicide comes from the idea of the Cruciatus Curse. The suicide comes from the idea of the Killing Curse. I'm a monster, I know. MWAHAHHAHA
> 
> [7] I also made it up myself. Occulus Sanguinans come from two words: Occulus and Sanguinans. The targets eyes will bleed profusely which will be painfully done. The target will die from blood loss if it isn't stopped. A counter-curse is not invented yet.
> 
> [8] I also made it up myself. Fracmembrum came from "Fractum Membrum" which means "Broken Limb" but it crushes the target's internal organs instead of anything exterior. This was inspired from the Bone-Breaking Curse. I thought, what would be worse than bone breaking? I thought of other internal organs and thought "Why not?"


	10. The Reawakening

Sherlock opens the door to start his talk with the Woman but stops at the sight of her. Instead, he decides to lean on the doorway once more to simply watch her every movement.

The said woman doesn't even acknowledge that Sherlock is now in the room and is openly watching her. Instead, she continues to look around the common room in interest. There are all sorts of odd things—and none of it is because they are wizard materials. 

There are letters on the walls being held by a dagger which stabbed its middle. There are frames with all sorts of beetles and bullets from muggle weapons. Books scatter around the room mindlessly. Although, she can make out what exactly he has been doing by how close the books are to this one arm chair near the fireplace.

She walks over to the fireplace and looks at a skull in interest, daring to place a hand on it to see if it is real—it is. Despite having seen too much from Lord Moriarty's hand, she can't help but shiver at a skull which once belonged to someone with coherent thought and is now being displayed on someone's mantlepiece—not because in fear, but at the reminder of how close one can be to death—in this case, hers.

Sherlock raises a brow at the display she is making. ' _Interesting_ ,' he thinks, ' _that she doesn't bat an eye upon killing another person and claiming it as self-defence in advance but shivers at the sight of a human skull._ ' 

He watches as she walks around with one of her legs sometimes getting out of the slit of the dressing robe, showing off more of her flawless skin. Woman be damned.

Irene looks around at the many Lab Potion and Muggle Science equipment on one table as well as socks and some sort of substances. She raises a brow in curiosity, moving closer to it to inspect it. Looking through the microscope, she hums in curiosity.

"What is it?" she addresses Sherlock suddenly, lacking her usual cold and teasing voice, and instead is filled with wonder.

"Poison," he replies quietly, moving to stand beside her as she continues to look around the table.

"What kind of poison?" she asks.

"Clostridium botulinum," he answers.  Irene's eyes snap up towards his. He looks at her curiously. "You know what it is?"

"I do," she replies.

"Not a lot of people in this culture know anything about Muggle Science," he comments.

"Then I believe it is fortunate that I'm not part of the ignorant ones," she replies, looking down at the substance once more.

"Why would you know one of the deadliest poisons on the planet?" he asks.

"Why not?" she asks in return. Sherlock doesn't reply and so, she adds, "People say that most murders with poison as the murder weapon always have women behind it."

"I am inclined to agree," Sherlock replies. "Poison is a much cleaner way to kill. The act of poisoning someone may seem indirect in the eyes of the murderess. Since poisoning someone is simply mixing materials and placing it on something, one can detach oneself into thinking that she did the murder herself."

Irene hums. "Perhaps it's also because it's the easiest way to murder someone. We are known for our cold rage." Sherlock hums. "Why _do_ you have Botulinum toxin in a common room?"

"A case from before," he replies, thinking of Moriarty. "You never answered my question."

"Which question?" she asks coyly, walking around the table and looking at whatever it is she can see on this one table.

"Why do you know of Clostridium botulinum?" he asks intensely, placing his hands in his pockets.

"Perhaps I was shopping for good poisons?" she answers teasingly, looking at him with a small smirk before continuing her investigation.

"No. You heard about it before from somewhere... suspicious."

Irene chuckles softly. "I do like the way you use adjectives, Professor Holmes."

Sherlock sighs. "Did you hear it from Lord Moriarty?" he asks.

Irene continues as if she didn't hear the question. Sherlock looks at her—there is not guilt, recognition, or any emotion plastered on her face. He internally groans in frustration at how much she can be unreadable.

"I did not," she replies after a few moments. Sherlock raises a brow but Irene continues to play around the lab equipment. "I was recently informed that a childhood acquaintance was killed with that poison," she replies casually.

"Carl Powers," he says quietly.

Irene's eyes snap towards his again. She stands up tall. Her eyebrows shoot up at that. "Yes, the champion swimmer.  Was his case the one you were investigating with this?" she asks, pointing at the trainers on the table.

"Yes," he replies.

"This happened two decades ago. Why would you take the case once more?"

Sherlock raises a brow. "It is a long story."

"Yet it interested you enough to take a closed case?" she asks.

His lips twitch upward a bit at that. "Carl Powers. I remember him from before. He had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out it was too late. Everyone thought of it as a simple tragic accident."

"But something was amiss?"

"Nobody thought so—nobody except me. I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers."

Irene chuckles at the thought of a smaller Sherlock Holmes, solving his first case.

"There was something wrong and it was something I couldn't get out of my head."

"His shoes?" she asks.

He nods. "They weren't there. I made a fuss. I tried to get the police interested but nobody seemed to think it was important. He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sight of his shoes... until now..."

"Tell me: how was he murdered?" she asks. Neither of them will admit it but both of them were brought back to the day they first met where Irene had asked a similar question.

Sherlock walks over to where he has hung up the laces from the trainers. "See, these shoelaces?" Irene hums. "The boy suffered from eczema. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later, he comes up to London, the poison, then, takes effect, paralyses the muscles, and then, he drowns."

"The autopsy was not able to detect the poison in his body... why?"

"It's virtually undetectable—muggle or wizard means. Nobody would have been looking for it, but there were still traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet... That's why they had to go."

After the last word he said, he is now completely aware that Irene is  _very_ close to him and that his subconscious had also turned his body to face the Woman completely, looking down at her as she looks up at him with those intense pale eyes.

"Why did you come here?" he asks her in a whisper, not needing to talk out loud since she's  _so close_ anyway.

"I already told you—"

"—that you're in trouble. I know... but why _here_?"

"People would least expect me to come to you now, wouldn't they?" she replies.

"But you're not—"

That's when the door suddenly opens. Both the lady and the professor jump apart just as the two healers enter the common room, closing the door behind them.

"Got your message, Sherlock," John says upon entering. Both Mary and John look in surprise at what the Woman is wearing—Sherlock's dressing gown. Sherlock doesn't  _just_ let anyone borrow his clothes. Then again, this isn't the first time Sherlock let Irene Adler borrow his clothes either.

Irene's eyes glint mischievously at the arrival of the two healers. It must be funny to see them this way: a brunet and a brunette standing side-by-side in front of a blond and a blonde who are also standing side-by-side.

"Sir John Watson," Irene greets the same way she had greeted John at the time she revealed herself to him. 

"Lady Adler," John replies. Irene looks at Mary next.

Irene notices that Rosamund— _Mary_ —moves slightly towards John protectively. Irene chuckles at that, understanding that she is being warned not to reveal anything. Sherlock believes that Mary's display of protectiveness is wary and mistrust of the woman beside him.

"You must be Madame Mary Morstan," Irene says, moving towards Mary.

Mary gives her a small smile. "Mary, please. The title makes me sound older than I seem to be."

"Goodness knows how women love to appear younger," Irene replies conversationally—something that made both men a tad bit suspicious.

"So, Sherlock," John starts to get to the matter at hand, "why did you ask us to be here? Why _both_ of us?"

"I have reasons to believe that two extra pair of eyes are better than one," Sherlock replies, looking down at Irene who raises a brow at him.

Sighing, John grabs the chair that is usually reserved for clients and places it in the middle of the common room.

"Please sit down," he says.

Sherlock sees Irene look at the chair with a raised brow. "It's where people like you sit," Sherlock tells her. "The client."

Irene chuckles. "Oh how the tables had turned," she replies. Sherlock chuckles to himself at that.

John sighs. "Let's start knowing your story, then," he says impatiently at the two dark-haired idiots.

"Fine," Irene replies, but instead of sitting down on the client's chair, she sits down on Sherlock's usual armchair.

Both Mary and John look at Sherlock to see his reaction because  _no one_ sits on Sherlock's armchair—except, of course, Mrs Hudson.

"Professor, please do sit," Irene tells him, looking at the client's chair pointedly.

Sherlock smirks at her audacity. So, he is to be her client, then? How very  _her_. Two can play at that game. Sherlock moves to sit down on the client's chair. John, though, a bit confused, sits on one of the chairs near the desk which is in between where the two raven-haired intellectuals are sitting on. Mary, on the other hand, sits on John's usual seat, directly in front of Irene.

Irene was the only one who noticed the change of position of every single one in this room. She is on the dominant chair—the chair of the detective. In front of her is Mary who is on the  _soldier_ _'s_ chair—her right-hand (once upon a time, Mary _was_ her right-hand before she had to do what she had to do to survive and gave Mary up). Sherlock Holmes is on the client's chair— _her_ client's chair, she supposes. John is sitting by, observing everyone in the room—usually what Mary does, she notices. She smirks.

Trying to remove the thoughts in her head to forget that she knows Rosamund instead of Mary, she rests her forearms on her thighs and leans on them casually.

"So, what's going on?" Mary finally asks in the silence.

"Some kind of trouble, then?" John asks her.

"I'm—" Irene starts.

"—always in trouble," Sherlock continues for her.

Irene looks at Sherlock. "It is rude to interrupt a lady, Professor Holmes."

Mary internally chuckles and thinks, ' _Well, you're hardly a lady now, are you, Irene?_ '

"What kind of trouble?" John asks.

"A bad one," she answers plainly.

Sherlock sighs, crossing his legs and leans back on the chair just as casually as Irene is leaning forwardly on his chair. If she wants to act like this is a normal occurrence, then by all means, let her lead this tango.

"So, who's after you?" he finally asks.

"People who want to kill me," she replies conversationally.

"And who's that?" he insists.

She looks up at him and smirks. "Killers," she teasingly answers. Both her and Sherlock stare at each other in a small eye-battle.

"It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific," John says, trying hard to keep these two back on Earth.

Both John and Mary glance at each other as if silently communicating that these two are looking at each other  _too much_.

"So, you faked your own death in order to get ahead of them," Sherlock finally says, ignoring John altogether.

Irene looks away for a moment. "It worked for a while," she says before snapping her eyes back on his.

"Except you let John know that you were alive... and therefore, _me_ ," he accuses her.

John and Mary both look at Sherlock at that. Mary notices that his words have some underlying amount of... was it hurt?

"I knew _you'd_ keep my secret," Irene says, looking away from Sherlock completely, rubbing her hands together.

Mary knows this habit—she's hiding something she wants to deny. Dear Merlin... she didn't actually...  _completely trust_ Sherlock with _her life_ now, did she? But that could be the only explanation... and Sherlock's words... What the hell is going on? She looks at John who is looking at the other two with almost the same level of confusion as she has.

" _You_ couldn't," Sherlock points out.

Irene looks at him again. "But you _did_ , didn't you?"

John groans to himself. They seem to have a language of their own. He looks at Mary who is looking at the other two with concentration and confusion. Glad to know that he isn't the only sane one in the room. He can trust on Mary to be on the same page as he does. Meanwhile, Mary seems to understand that there must be more than simple flirting between the two. There's understanding there and... trust between the two.

Irene Adler... trusting someone?

"Where's my Pandora's box?" she asks, using the name Sherlock often uses when talking about her box of blackmail.

"It's not here," John says in answer. "We're not stupid."

"Then what have you done with it?" she asks, looking back at Sherlock. She looks around, slightly looking at Mary as she says, "If they guessed you've got it, they'll be watching you."

Mary finally understands. Irene has some of her information in that blasted box. ' _How dare she?! The nerve of this... bitch!_ '

To distract herself, she starts

"If they've been watching me," Sherlock starts, "they'll know that I took a safety deposit box at the lower caves of Gringotts a few months ago."

"I need it," Irene simply says, finally confirming Sherlock's theory on why she is here at Hogwarts.

"Well, we can't just go and get it, can we?" Mary suddenly says. Both Irene and Sherlock continue to look at each other.

John, in turn, looks at Sherlock with an idea. "Molly Hooper." Sherlock suddenly looks away from Irene to look at John. "She could collect it, take it to Mungo's; then one of your... homeless network could bring it here, leave it with the headmaster, and one of the house elves downstairs could bring it up the back."

Sherlock smiles mockingly. "Very good, John! Excellent plan with _intelligent_ precautions."

"Thank you," John says, not understanding why Mary is trying not to laugh. He starts to reach for the Floo Powder on the desk. "So, why don't... Oh, for—"

John stops when he sees Sherlock take the box out of his pocket and hold it up. John looks at Mary who gives him a small sympathetic smile and he shakes his head in annoyance. Sherlock looks at the box closely and curiously just as Irene stands up in alarm at the sight of the box.

"So... what do you keep on here—in general, I mean?" he asks.

Irene crosses her arms to reclaim her dominance in the room. Mary rolls her eyes slightly at her tactic—knowing that she is desperate for that box herself.

"Pictures, information, memories, anything I might find useful," she answers.

"What? For blackmail?" John asks, raising his head to mask how much he hates blackmail.

"For _protection_ ," Irene corrects him. "I make my way in the world; I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side _exactly_ when I need them to be."

Mary chuckles to herself. ' _That's an understatement._ '

"So how do you acquire this information?" Sherlock demands.

"I told you: I _misbehave_."

"But you've acquired something that's more _danger_ than  _protection_... Do you know what it is?"

"Yes," she replies but quietly she adds, "but I don't understand it."

"I assumed. Show me," he orders.

Irene holds out her hand for the box. Sherlock, in turn, holds it up out of her reach.

"The passcode," he demands.

Irene straightens her back, a smirk forming slightly upon her lips. She continues to hold her hand out in defiance. Eventually, Sherlock sits forward and hands her the box. Opening it to show the runes, she holds it out so none of the participants can see what she is pressing, she types in four characters. The box sheds its skin.

"It's not working," she says, looking down at the box in disappointment.

"No," Sherlock says, standing up and taking the box away from her, "because it's a duplicate that I had made, into which you've just entered the number one-oh-five-eight."

Irene crosses her arms, looking at a distance. Mary knows this is a look of someone smug and victorious—well, to Irene's standards anyway. She immediately knows that Sherlock is going to eat his words in a few moments. John, on the other hand, smiles at Sherlock's brilliance.

Sherlock walks towards his own armchair which she had been sitting on moments before and grabs the real box from under the cushion. Irene tries hard not to be offended how uncaring the box was treated and impressed that he would use a classic hiding spot for others not to suspect it.

"I assumed you'd choose something more specific than that but, um, thanks anyway," Sherlock adds smugly.

Looking down at the real box, it opens up to show the runes that mean "I AM - - - - LOCKED" and he presses the runes that would mean 1058.  Sherlock looks at Irene smugly who, in turn, looks at the box in anticipation. Suddenly, the box sheds once more and her own writing appears on the side saying:

> ** Nice try, Professor Holmes. That's the wrong passcode.  
>  You have 1 attempt remaining. **

Sherlock looks at the box in disbelief then at Irene herself.

"I _told_ you that box was my life. I know when it's in my hand," she says the last sentence in a sort of caress.

"Oh, you're rather good," Sherlock says in a vibrating low voice. Mary could say that Sherlock seems... aroused at this point.

"You're not so bad," Irene replies with a smile. She holds out her hand once more and takes the box from him.

The two continue to have extreme eye-sex for the next few moments. Mary raises her brow at the uncharacteristic display of Irene's smile. It's different. There's the usual playfulness and seduction but she seems actually...  _interested_ in Sherlock.

She almost laughed right there and then.

"Hamish," John says abruptly. Everyone in the room looks at him. He shifts uncomfortably on his seat at everyone's gazes. Irene frowns at him as if she wants to kill him for breaking the moment whilst Sherlock looks almost as annoyed at him. Mary raises her brow at him in amusement. "John Hamish Watson... just if you were... looking for _baby names_."

Sherlock frowns in confusion. Irene remains unemotional but you can detect an amused smirk on her lips. Mary was not able to contain her laughter.

"There was a man," Irene starts, "a Prophecy Unspeakable, and I knew what he liked." Walking a short distance away from all of them, leaning on the chair in front of John's, so no one can see what runes she is pressing, she types in the real passcode and opens up the box.

Grabbing her wand, she points it at the box, and to the surprise of both the healers, something shoots up from the box and into Irene's other hand. Both Mary and John were not aware that Irene could do non-verbal spells, nor that she can do it without a specific wave of the wand. She places a circular object on the table and makes it bigger.

The other three take note that Irene had left her wand on the table—for everyone to see and she makes no move to grab it.

She continues talking as she does all this saying, "One of the things he liked was showing off—a failure of an Unspeakable... He told me these prophecies were going to save the world. He didn't know it, but I duplicated them." She hands one of three glass spheres to Sherlock who looks at the writing on the wood it is resting on.

**S.P.T. to B.C.** [1]  
The Network  
and Unknown People

"It's a bit small in that duplicate. Can you read it?" she asks Sherlock who moves to sit on the chair opposite John's.

"Yes," Sherlock replies, looking at the inscription in thought.  _What is the network?_

"Well, let's hear it," John says as Mary leans down on John's shoulder—somehow in the same position as the two dark-haired prodigies.

Immediately, the voice of Sybill Patricia Trelawney starts:

 _007 Confirmed allocation_  
4C12C45F13E13G60A60B61F34G34J60D12H33K34K

Sherlock frowns. "That's not exactly a normal prophecy, is it?" Mary comments when Trelawney's words drown out.

"A code, obviously," Irene tells him. "I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it—though he was mostly upside down, as I recall... Couldn't figure it out."

Sherlock taps the prophecy once more and with his eyes staring at the prophecy intently, his hand madly writes the information on a piece of paper.

"What can _you_ do, Professor Holmes?" Irene asks with an amused smirk.

She thinks Sherlock would obviously take hours answering this. No one had given her such an answer either. This may not be the first prophecy of this kind—but prophecies of this kind had never been answered. It would be amusing to watch the Great Sherlock Holmes fail.

"Go on," she adds, leaning over his shoulder. "Impress a girl."

In Sherlock's mind, time slows down.

The numbers in the code flashes through Sherlock's mind rapidly.

4C12C45F13E13G60A60B61F34G34J60D12H33K34K

C C F E G A B F G J D H K K

A B C D E F G H J K

D E F G  
A B C                H J K

When he had finally figured out the code, Irene has kissed his cheek and John has finally placed his mug on the table. Sherlock's eyes looks at Irene's direction as she leans back and he concentrates once more on the written words.

Rapidly, he starts, "There's a margin of error but I'm pretty sure there's 747 leaving Heathrow tomorrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently, it's going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true but give me a moment; I've only been on the case for eight seconds."

Sherlock looks up to see the confused and blank looks of the two healers. He glances at Irene briefly.

"Oh, come on," he says, "it's not code; these are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look—" he raises the paper to show his two friends—"there's not letter _I_ because it can be mistake for a _1_. No letters past _K_ —the width of the plane is the limit. The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place—families and couples sitting together."

Mary glances at Irene briefly who is still looking at Sherlock in awe. That fascinates her—to see Irene  _actually_ interested in someone. Sherlock takes the prophecy once more.

"Only a Jumbo is wide enough to need the letter _K_ or rows past 55, which is why there's always an upstairs. There's a row 13, which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there's the style of the flight number—007—that eliminates a few more... and assuming a British point of origin, which would be logical considering the original source of the information and assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent—"

Sherlock stands up and Irene follows his movements.

"—the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the six thirty to Baltimore tomorrow evening from Heathrow Airport."

He finally stops and lowers the prophecy in his hands which had started to whisper the prophecy once more. He looks down at the incredibly impressed Irene Adler who is looking at him in admiration and amazement.

"Please don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing. John's expressed the same thought in every possible variant available to the English language."

Irene finds this as a challenge and smirks devilishly. So, she answers huskily, "I would have you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice."

Sherlock pauses and both he and Irene stare at each other the whole time. Mary and John both stare at them—not daring to break the silence.

Still looking at Irene, John says, "John, please can you check those flight schedules; see if I'm right?"

"And how do I do that?" John asks quietly, not wanting to ignite a wildfire from a spark and a bit overwhelmed by the sexual tension in the room...

Sherlock ignores him, still staring at Irene. He notices how her eyes had drifted from his eyes and to his lips... 

' _Interesting_ ,' he thinks, ' _and very telling._ '

"Here, John," Mary replies casually and as if there is nothing wrong at all, giving John a small mirror. "It goes both ways. I know someone named, er, David. He's a squib... and... he'll help."

"Uh-huh. I'm on it, yeah..."

Clearing his throat, John looks down to contact this  _David_  who, Sherlock had already informed him months ago, had dated Mary before working at Hogwarts.

Sherlock snappily opens his mouth and suddenly says, "I've never begged for mercy in my life."

From his lips, Irene's eyes snap up to his at the moment he had started talking. "Twice," Irene replies firmly, raising her brows for emphasis.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at her, before roaming it around her face. He notices how her mouth had slightly opened—as if anticipating for something. Her eyes narrows slightly, making it even more intense than it had already been.

"Uh, yeah, you're right," John says, closing the connection of the mirror, and hesitatingly places it back in Mary's hands. "Flight double oh seven."

Sherlock's eyes move away from Irene's, making the latter disappointed at the sudden loss of the existing battle.

"What did you say?" Sherlock asks.

"You're right," John replies.

"No, no, no, _after_ that. What did you say  _after that_?"

"Double oh seven. Flight double oh seven."

Sherlock looks around, but not really seeing the room as he quietly mutters to himself. "Double oh seven... Double oh seven... Double oh seven... Double oh seven..."

With a hand on his arm, he gently pushes Irene slightly out of the way, and begins to pace around the room.

"...Something... Something connected to double oh seven... _What_?!"

Meanwhile, with a hand behind her back, she motions it and a Grey Fox Patronus forms in a hidden area—away from Sherlock's view since he is busy pacing and concentrating; away from John's view since he is busy looking at Sherlock in both concern and confusion.

Although Mary is looking at Sherlock's general direction, she is keeping herself alert with Irene's antics. She feels her use her magic but is not sure which.

Meanwhile, Irene connects with her Patronus mentally and tells it:

_Go to Kate and tell her:  
Get my notebook for James Moriarty and write to him: 747 Tomorrow 6:30pm Heathrow._

The patronus hums in her head in reply before gliding away from Hogwarts and is sent away.

Meanwhile, the professor continues to pace.

"Double oh seven. Double oh seven... What? What? _Something_.  _What?!_ "

Sherlock's eyes snap open as he begins to remember.

A Leopard patronus—Mycroft's—in the Great Hall... Mycroft talking to it.

"Bond Air is go..." Sherlock remembers.

He starts to walk towards the door of his quarters that would lead to the Great Hall as his mind flashes back to Mycroft's words.

"Bond Air is go... Bond Air is go..."

* * *

As a dark lord walks across Muggle London in a muggle attire—people are so stupid, they don't even know that a criminal walks amongst them, his small pocket notebook vibrates in his pockets and so he takes it. It says: 

> _747 TOMORROW 6:30PM HEATHROW_

Since this notebook only has one purpose, he knows Lady Adler had done her job well.

Quickly, he goes to a secluded area and summons his untraceable owl.

He conjures a parchment, a quill, and some ink so no one would suspect of him being in Muggle London in order for him to stay hidden.

Before the owl arrives, he quickly writes formally:

> _Jumbo Jet. Dear me Mr Holmes, dear me._

Just as he finished writing, the owl arrives and he takes a black ribbon to tie the letter with on its leg before he lets the owl fly to one Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

In the Minister of Magic's Office, Mycroft arrives and sees an unknown owl standing on his desk with a letter.

Curious, he takes the letter and opens it. 

> _Jumbo Jet. Dear me Mr Holmes, dear me._

He sinks down on his chair, rubbing his face with his palm, entirely in shock with what he had learned.

Time passes by, Mycroft had already removed his jacket and is drinking a glass of Blishen's Firewhisky [2]. His hands are on his mouth and his eyes stay wide and completely horrified at the thoughts that run through his head.

Night time, the minster of magic continue to stay scared in terrified at the horror he has to endure. The glass of Firewhisky is empty. Mycroft slowly closes his eyes and places his head in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Who is BC? Well, he's a classmate of mine who actually likes showing off... He won't stop talking about this girl he had sex with. This girl, AE, is one of my "friends" (she's more of a "connection" for my "network" tbh)... and she is /fond/ of BDSM. I'm keeping them both in my contacts for now... In case of something, ya know?
> 
> [2] Blishen's Firewhisky was a brand of premium Highland Scotch firewhisky presumably brewed by Blishen.


	11. The Withholding

Sir Watson, Madame Morstan, and Lady Adler all stay where they were standing (in John's case, seating) as they watch the professor pace across the room and mutter to himself, deep in thought.

"What triggered him this time?" John asks both witches.

Mary, who stands behind John with her hands on his shoulders, looks at the pacing and distracted professor. "Something about double-oh-seven. That's James Bond, right?" Mary asks, remembering the films she and John had had a marathon on.

"Yes," John replies with a sigh. "Tea, anyone?" he asks both women.

"Please," Irene finally replies in that commanding tone of hers yet lingering within it is a small amount of distracted wonder.

Mary looks at the woman in front of her. Irene continues to watch the pacing professor with her eyes following his every movement. She seems to be leaning back to the table, with her hands resting on the table behind her as well, as if she is perched on it. From Mary's observation, it seems that Irene is opening herself up to Sherlock Holmes—with a very open stance.

"Sinky," John summons quietly.

With a silent pop, a house-elf appears out of nowhere and in front of John. "Yes, Sir Watson, sir? You asked for Sinky, sir?" she asks almost eagerly.

"Would you mind if you can make some tea for the three of us?" John asks, moving away from the chair to crouch down in front of the house-elf.

Sinky beams up at the request. "Yes, sir! Of course, sir!"

"Oh, and Sinky?" Mary starts, crouching down beside John.

"Yes, Madame Morstan, ma'am?" she asks with barely concealed excitement.

"Can you please bring a couple of biscuits, too, if you have them?" she asks.

"Of course, ma'am! Right away, ma'am! I'll do it now, ma'am! Is there anything else you need, ma'am? sir?" the elf asks with a beaming smile.

John looks at both Mary who is smiling at Sinky and at Irene who is still staring at Sherlock distractedly. "No, that's enough, Sinky. Thank you."

"Anything for you, Sir Watson, sir. Anything!"

With that, the house-elf vanishes with a click of her fingers. Sighing, John stands up and walks towards the couch where he drops himself with a groan. Mary, in turn, follows her boyfriend to sit beside him. Automatically and almost instinctively, John wraps an arm around her shoulders and she leans into him.

Sherlock is still pacing around the room whilst muttering to himself, with his fingers together and on top of his lips—in that usual prayer position of his. Lady Adler, on the other hand, is still by the table, observing the professor quietly and with interest.

"This is going to take all day, you know," Mary comments. She is met with silence. "Lady Adler?"

"Hmm?" Irene asks distractedly.

"I said this is going to take all day," she repeats.

"What is?" she asks, finally looking at Mary.

"This," Mary replies, gesturing at the still pacing Sherlock.

"Yeah, he's always like that," John agrees.

"Always like what?" Irene asks.

"I don't know—unresponsive, dead, mute—whatever you call it," John replies.

Irene hums, moving from her place to walk towards John's usual armchair, making sure not to touch the madly pacing professor. "Does this happen all the time?"

John laughs. "I wish."

With Irene's raised brow, Mary answers. "Well, it is a usual occurrence, but he usually complains about boredom most of the time..."

Irene chuckles. "Am I right to assume that he is not aware of his surroundings at this point? And that he cannot hear our conversation as of this moment?" she asks, watching the pacing man.

"Yes," John replies.

"How is it related? How?" Sherlock mutters to himself, walking towards his chair. 

Sherlock grabs his violin from the floor and finally seats on his armchair, placing the violin on his lap as he starts to fiddle with the strings on the neck of the violin. The other three watch in silence as the professor continue to keep silent (occasionally muttering to himself but barely audible) whilst making a beautiful piece through plucking the strings of the violin.

"So why are you _really_ here?" John asks Irene.

"I told you: I am still in danger," she replies, not looking at him but at the professor in front of her.

"You could have left the country," Mary points out.

"And live an unfinished life abroad with the British Government and the Ministry of Magic searching for me? Why?"

 _Both of which is Mycroft,_  John thinks.

"Why are you still here?"

"I still have some things to make matters of," Irene replies.

"Such as?" Mary asks.

"Why do you ask?" Irene asks.

"Because Sherlock is our friend," John replies, "and you are an international criminal."

"And how does the two relate to each other, Sir Watson?"

"You know," John starts, "you're just as good at directing conversation as Sherlock. Thank Merlin I managed to learn through his bullshit years ago..."

"Did you really?" Irene teases.

"I've learned enough," John replies.

"We don't understand," Mary says, interrupting the two and feeling slightly territorial of John. "You have your _protection_ or whatever word you think would justify you into owning such a thing. Sherlock is not a vital aspect to you anymore."

Irene's lips twitch up slightly as she continues to watch Sherlock fiddling with the violin.

"Despite what you both believe, Madame Morstan, he is an important asset to my survival," she says.

" _Asset_ ," John mutters under his breath. "How?" he replies, blinking his humiliation on behalf of Sherlock away. "How is he an important asset to you?"

"Do you know what this is, Sir Watson?" Irene asks, still not looking at him but raising her hand with her palm wide open. Perched on top of it is the very Pandora's box which had been ruining the now peaceful life of John Watson.

"Your box of blackmail."

"I told you all already, Sir Watson. It is for my _protection_."

"Your Get-Out-Of-Azkaban-Free card, he described," John replies, nodding.

"Get-Out-Of-Azkaban-Free card?" Mary whispers beside him.

"It's a muggle thing," John replies just as quietly to her. "I'll teach you Monopoly later."

" _This_ is how I survive," Irene finally says, "and so I need to understand what is inside to use it properly."

Mary turns to Irene once more. "Sherlock is not the only person capable of answering your questions."

"No," Irene agrees, "but he knows enough. To ask him everything I need, I need not go across the world to talk to arrogant claimers of profession and mastery. It would take an awful amount of time, and I simply do not have the energy for it as of this moment."

"So you're here to consult with Sherlock..." John says.

"Yes."

"But you don't seem so keen to ask him anything," Mary points out.

"He seems to be preoccupied." Irene gestures to the professor who is still producing some music with his distracted eyes.

"Then you don't have to stay," Mary says with a shrug.

"I told you: I still need to have a talk with him," Irene replies, tilting her head at Sherlock.

"Talk about what? Whatever it is, you can tell us anyway," John responds. "Sherlock will most likely tell us at the end of the day."

"It is a matter that only  _he_ is allowed to hear," she insists.

"No international secret had been withheld from us by Sherlock," Mary says confidently.

"This is not an international secret," Irene replies truthfully.

"If it harms Sherlock in any way, Mary and I deserve to be informed by it," John says firmly.

"It will not harm him in any way. I promise you that," Irene replies.

"I'm afraid I can't trust your word for it," John retorts.

Irene smirks. "I suspected as much," she replies. "I am afraid my word is all that I could offer you, Sir Watson."

"Then we're not leaving until you tell us what's going on."

"I do not believe this information is important to you."

John raises a brow. "Why isn't it?" he challenges.

"It is rather interesting how much you want to know so much about what I do, Sir Watson," she says instead.

"You're a criminal. I have to know your motive and your background," John replies.

"I have never seen such a brave auror such as you are, John Watson."

"I am not an auror anymore."

"Once an auror, always an auror. I am rather impressed by your work, _Head Auror Watson_." She smirks. "You may be an incredibly gifted healer but you are also an incredibly gifted auror. Habits and discipline obtained from a military background never truly leave a person."

John clears his throat uncomfortably since he wants to feel flattered because of a compliment given by a woman who is not so easily impressed.

Mary shakes her head, feeling a bit territorial of John. "We're getting out of topic... You say that you're running away from danger... and yet you are staying at Hogwarts—where many gifted wizards and witches roam around carelessly—filled with hundreds of students, who are being taught the art of defence and offence... Do you really believe it is wise for you to stay here?"

"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is one of many locations where my presence is unwanted. The Ministry of Magic as well as the British Government is hunting me down. They would not expect me to be at Hogwarts. Why should I be here and with close proximity to Sherlock Holmes—the greatest consultant in both the muggle and wizarding world. The _Queen_ consulted him to take one of the royalties' photographs. It would be the _least_ of their expectations for me to stay in _his_ room. Would they think I would be with the enemy?"

"But you got what you want. You have your box. You're safe now," John argues.

"Although running is fun, to have so many people chasing after me could be quite an inconvenience in my part."

"You think the Ministry of Magic and the British Government chasing after you is an inconvenience?" John asks disbelievingly.

"Plenty of important men and women chase after me, Sir Watson. I am rather used to the situation," she replies with a wink. John rolls his eyes as Irene chuckles. "Besides, if it takes them longer, their chase would die down and I may leave in peace. I always know my enemies to understand the best course of action. I am known to be fast on my feet and so staying in one place for the moment would not have been what they expected of me."

"But wouldn't it be better to leave elsewhere? A complete assurance of your safety? Why Hogwarts in particular? There are plenty of places to hide in... Places even the Ministry of Magic or the British Government or any muggle government won't be able to track down."

"Are you giving me tips on how to run away, Madame Morstan?" Irene asks with a hint of amusement. 

Mary bites back her reply because she knows Irene is just trying hard to push her buttons.

"I am bewildered by the citadel," Irene comments, gesturing around with her hands. "I have heard so much about it from my friends." John raises a brow at the last sentence. "Something that interests you, Sir Watson?"

"Nothing."

"Do you find it that hard to believe that a person such as me could obtain a number of friends? Even friends here from Hogwarts?" Irene asks with a small chuckle, glancing at Mary for a second.

"I'm a friend of Sherlock Holmes. I don't find it that hard to believe at all—unusual and a forgettable little fact, okay—but believable nonetheless."

Irene hums in reply, looking at Sherlock once more, just as silence stretches on. The three quietly eat as they listen to the music Sherlock is producing. Irene blinks before taking her wand and nonverbally conjures a quill that resembles a DictaQuill [1].

John raises a brow at the fact that Irene had not only nonverbally conjured a quill, but she also had not even flicked her wrist to do it. Both John and Mary raise their brows in shock, amusement, and realisation as Irene points the DictaQuill towards the music sheets behind Sherlock, and the DictaQuill starts on writing musical notes on the blank music sheets.

"Have you ever wondered about Sherlock's thought process?" Irene asks suddenly in a whisper. 

Mary looks from Sherlock to Irene in surprise, only to see that Irene seems to not be truly speaking to them but as if she had spoken aloud and had not realised it herself. She turns to look at John who also looks at her at the same time. They immediately understood each other's looks—they had both realised and felt amusement when Irene had referred to Sherlock by his first name without realising it.

"I think everyone had wondered about his thought process... No, I  _know_ everyone had wondered about his thought process," John replies, making Irene turn her head towards John in surprise for a moment—confirming Mary's observation that she did not plan on saying that out loud—before looking back at Sherlock once more.

"But did you ever wonder how deep it is—how much there is in his mind?" Irene asks, addressing John with eyes transfixed on Sherlock.

John hums. "I've been his friend since he had started here in Hogwarts. Of course, there were bouts of wonder in my part of the relationship. There are times I just accept it but at times like this—when he is just sitting there—I tend to suddenly remember that his mind is deeper than what he shows other people. He's more brilliant than we already give him credit for."

Irene nods. "His way of thinking, from what I had observed, is often confused with his personality—which makes people believe that him, knowing all of the things he already knows, is just so very  _him_ , and not just a  _part_ of him. Thoughts are different from the mind. Thoughts are _inside_ the mind... and his mind is vast—not because of how much he knows, but because of how he utilises it."

"From what you had _observed_?" John repeats. "How many times _exactly_ have you two been seeing each other?" John asks.  Irene doesn't reply but continues to look at Sherlock. "Because from what I remember, you only really met once... and from what I recall, we were interrupted at the time and you gave him a Weakening Potion so people would be invested in him coming back safely instead of you managing to escape... And I remember that your only means of communication is that _bloody_ notebook..." Irene keeps silent. "So did you, Lady Adler? Met Sherlock more than once, I mean?"

Irene still doesn't reply, an unreadable look in her eyes.

"Why are you interested?" Mary finally found herself asking quietly since John had not added more, completely accepting with the fact that Irene will not be answering him.

"Interested in what?" Irene asks, her eyes still stuck on the mind-absent professor.

"His thought process."

"Am I not allowed to be curious?"

"You are never curious."

"And you are so sure of that statement because...?"

"Then what is the truth?"

Irene raises a brow. "I believe I am one of the few who is _always_ curious."

"Curious about information you find highly interesting."

"Isn't curiosity sparked by interest?" she asks.

Before Mary retorts something, John decides to ask, "But why _are_ you interested in  _knowing_ about Sherlock's thought process? Knowing _you_ , you only take information that is proven to be useful for your  _protection_. Knowing Sherlock's thought process, what does it benefit you?"

"Do you really believe that I would only be interested in information I find useful?"

"Isn't that what you do for a living?" Mary retorts.

"Does a person only do the thing he or she does for a living? A theatre actor is capable of lying in the face of a falling relationship, do they not? They act for a living yet they do it outside of their work."

"So, you admit that you _are_ interested in Sherlock's way of thinking, not because it is useful... but because you just want to know? Because you're interested in _Sherlock_ himself?" John asks. Mary smirking beside him. 

_ John, you bloody _ _matchmaker_ , she thinks to herself.

"I never said such a thing, Sir Watson," she replies.

"Then why do you want to know _such a thing_ , Lady Adler?" he asks in a more mocking tone.

Irene turns to look at him and replies, "Know thy enemy, Sir Watson."

"What?"

"I said 'Know thy enemy'."

"Yes, I heard what you said... So you consider Sherlock as your enemy?" John questions confusedly.

"I consider everyone as an enemy, Sir Watson. Yes, even you and Madame Morstan. You, of all people, should understand that—being ex-Head Auror and the former youngest Head Auror appointed in the Ministry. It only takes a matter of time before the icy barrier of distrust is thawed by a sense of familiarity."

"So you're saying that you're starting to trust Sherlock?" Mary asks bluntly.

Irene turns her head to give Mary an unreadable look—as if she is assessing her. "Where on Earth did you come up with that conclusion?" she asks amusedly.

"You said it yourself, didn't you? Everyone is an enemy but it only takes a matter of time before you let some become the people you trust."

"Yes."

"And how long since you and Sherlock met, Lady Adler? One month? Two months? Four months? _Half a year_?"

"Half a year is not long enough. Sherlock is one of my greatest threats and it would only prove to be problematic in my account should I even be capable of trusting a man such as he," she replies.

"But there _is_ a possibility of you trusting him?"

Irene narrows her eyes at John. "Would the answer benefit you in some way?" she asks curiously. "You seem to be quite interested in it."

"Yes."

"How would it benefit you?"

"Lady Adler," John starts, leaning forward and placing his forearms on his thighs, clasping his hands together, "I am deeply worried about my friend—" he gestures to Sherlock with his two index fingers whilst the other fingers are still intertwined with each other—"and I want to know what the bloody hell you're planning on because if you take a step out of line—"

"—and you still continue to deny that you're a couple," she retorts. Mary chuckles quietly and tries to conceal her laughter when John turns to glare at her. "I do not believe I will _hurt_ your friend, Sir Watson... At least, in _my_ concept of hurt. Although, in all honesty, I may not be completely sure of what kind of hurt _you_ are referring to. "

"Yes, you are," John replies.

"No, I am not."

_Emotionally, obviously_ , John thinks, but doesn't argue and instead says,  "You trust Sherlock. Don't deny it. We all know it. You gave him your box—and I heard you before... that day we all met. You referred to that box as your _life_. Your life _depends_ on that box. _You_ depend on that box... and you just gave it to Sherlock? Just like that? You practically placed your _life_  in Sherlock's hands... You know he will hide your box from your chasers, whatever reason it may be, you firmly had full certainty that he would hide the box and _he_ became  _your_ protection. Isn't that a bit telling?" John asks. Mary smirks proudly at John.

Irene sighs. "I do not trust _Sherlock Holmes_... but I am an intellectual and I am informed enough to know that he is the entire embodiment of a Ravenclaw. Yes, he might have been sorted in all four houses but he _chose_ to be a Ravenclaw because he values the art of  _knowing_ and  _solving_. He is curious and loves a good puzzle. I have observed him enough to know that, Sir Watson. Sherlock is a person who does what he does, not because he wants the fame or the glory. He wants to solve the clues. He wants to take pieces of the puzzle and places it together. He is _Sherlock Holmes_ and I know what he _likes_."

Both John and Mary frown at the last words of Irene—understanding the whole meaning of that.

"He feels a strange sort of high at the satisfaction of solving a problem. I am fairly confident of my box's passcode and that he will never be able to decode it as easily as any other problems he had had in the past. This is a deeper kind of decoding, Sir Watson, and knowing his tendency to never leave a case unsolved, he would never willingly give a good case in the hands of the Ministry."

"His brother," Mary whispers in realisation.

"Mycroft, yeah," John agrees. "I _was_ kind of surprised to know that the box is still here and not in the Ministry."

"Because, as I said, Sherlock will not give up on a good enough case," Irene replies.

John and Mary share a look. 

_Or maybe because Sherlock doesn't want to give up something of Irene's since he received the box on Christmas Day—the day of her alleged death_ , they both think although they don't know they were both thinking the same thing.

"I do _not_ trust Sherlock," Irene repeats, "but I trust his love for puzzles... and I am aware that I am one of his more difficult puzzles."

"That you are," John whispers instead.

_ And yet you already call him by his first _ _name_ , John secretly thinks.

"Yes, and he would not hand over such a good case to his brother's hands..."

Mary sighs and cuts off John when she noticed he was about to reply. "But that doesn't justify the fact that you are here when you really shouldn't."

"Why not, Madame Morstan? " 

"Because there... there are _students_ here—actual _kids_ , Lady Adler."

"What does having students here have anything to do with my staying?" Irene asks with a small hint of confusion.

"It may not have occurred to you, _Lady Adler_ , but you are a renowned international criminal inside an establishment filled with minor students. Excuse me for being an intellectual who is concerned of the students. You may be forgetting that you are a _danger to this castle_."

"That is quite amusing coming from you, Madame Morstan," Irene jabs.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Mary says, her hand, which John cannot see, clenching and shaking in anger. Her teeth grits as she slightly narrows her eyes at the concealed look of smugness in Irene's eyes.

"Am I safe to assume that we are all born under the generation of the grim terrorisation of our dear old Tommy?" Irene asks.

John raises a brow at Irene's casual use of Voldemort's real name, and even making a mock nickname of his. If Voldemort was still alive, he would have killed Irene on the spot. She's more rebellious than he thought.

"I would suppose that by the Second Wizarding War, being a strong independent woman and a massive feminist that you, Madame Morstan, had fought at the time of the Battle of Hogwarts as well. You had killed before... That much is obvious."

Mary clenches her jaw at the last statement whilst Irene doesn't show anything on her face that would suggest she's being her usual dominant self. She knows Irene knows her true nature. Her wording is intelligent. She had noticed that John had given out a quiet sigh of relief at the explanation... but Irene was saying a secret.

She's trying to show that she has control of the situation because... Mary technically  _was_ fighting at the time of the Battle of Hogwarts... but she was not  _in_ the Battle of Hogwarts. She was off somewhere around the world, killing and fighting off her targets under her old bosses, which she will later ditch in the future to join A.G.R.A... but that's a story for another time.

"And Sir Watson, I do not even have to ask you if you had killed. You are known to have killed Death Eaters as a child because of your intentional underage magic... and being former Head Auror, I would be surprised if you had not killed a man as of yet... disappointed, even."

John clears his throat at that, straightening his back and shifting uncomfortably on his seat, before asking,  "How about _you_ , Lady Adler? Have you killed anyone?"

Irene tilts her head. "I will have to admit that I may be a dangerous person but I am merely capable of _self-defence_ _in advance_ ," she says with a mischievous grin, "or have you forgotten what had occurred on the day we met?"

John nods, just remembering that Irene had had a gun to keep her box safe which killed Mr Archer in her own living room... and yet she remained calm and  _playful_ after the whole ordeal. 

_Jesus Christ and Merlin, why did Sherlock have to show interest to another sociopathic criminal?_ he thinks.

"We are all dangerous people in this castle, Sir Watson. To be perfectly honest, everything inside this citadel is dangerous. You are letting children go around with a weapon in their hands."

"Weapon?" Mary asks.

"Is a wand not a weapon?" Irene asks, twirling her own wand in her fingers as if it is not one of the most valuable items a witch or wizard has in their possession. "As I said earlier, this is why this castle interests me. The culture is completely different."

"Isn't this a... _bold_ move, Lady Adler?" Mary asks. Irene raises a brow at her in reply. "I understand you claim to be here to wait on your chasers to die down... but I'm sorry if I don't really believe you when you say you're only staying here because of that. Like I said, there are better places to hide than Hogwarts. You said it yourself: Hogwarts is one of _many_ , and your only goal is to stay in one impossible place to keep a low profile... Being interested about the castle is not really a convincing reason either... It doesn't look like you're going out of this room to explore. Hell, why should you? You're being hunted by the Ministry of Magic as well as the British Government. Any one of the staff could see and report you. You're not leaving this room at all. You're not even _dressed properly_. Someone of your _taste_ in fashion and profession surely wouldn't dare leave the... _comfort_ of a place without fixing her appearance... I think we can all safely say that you're not here for the castle or for the sake of hiding. You're only here for Sherlock."

"Of course, I am.  Were you not listening? I am here to take my box back," Irene replies.

"Which you already have," John insists.

"And I have said that I need to talk to Sherlock alone."

"Why do you need to talk to an enemy alone?" John asks tactlessly.

"Do you not talk to the people you condemn?" Irene asks.

"So you are here to condemn Sherlock?" Mary points out.

"I did not say that. I am asking if Sir Watson does not talk to the people he had condemned."

"Er, I do—talk to them, I mean."

"Why do you?" Irene asks.  "To know more about something that needs to be known," she says before John could answer.

"You're only here because you want something specific from Sherlock—not just to talk," Mary tells her.

"And what do you want from Sherlock?" John asks.

Irene sighs, as if she is annoyed. "A number of things," she replies eventually.

"Like?"

"You two seem too keen to throw me out," Irene observes, tilting her head at the healers.

"Because you should not be here."

"And this argument will circulate once more." Irene blinks—John believes this is her own dignified version of rolling her eyes.

"Why don't you just admit that you just want to be alone with Sherlock because you like him?" John asks tactlessly.

Irene blinks at that. "I do find him fascinating, yes."

" _Fascinating_?" John repeats.

"Yes, look at him. Do you not see the brilliance in this?" Irene asks him quietly, tilting her head at Sherlock and staring at the stoic professor intensely.

Mary looks on. It wouldn't benefit Irene to look at Sherlock like that. Sherlock doesn't see her which means it matters not that she looks at Sherlock interestedly. Unless she wants her and John to think she truly is interested in Sherlock for some other dubious plans... but what had Irene told her in the past?

' _The_ _ problem with disguises is that it is always a _ _self-portrait. The best of lies are conducted from the slivers of truth._ '

"I see this every day." John's voice breaks down Mary's thoughts. "Yes, it is amazing how much his mind is focused to filter everything else... and that his mind is so great to have his own... mind palace or whatever..." Irene smirks at the last part. "Like I said, there is more to him than we already know."

"But you do not understand how _deeply_ it goes."

"I'm not an inhumane genius now, am I?" John retorts.

"It is not that hard to understand," Irene starts.

John rolls his eyes. "Here we go."

Irene sighs. "His mind is distracted as of right now. He is solving a solution in his head. Look at him... Sherlock has a hard puzzle in his head and he is trying hard to solve it. He had removed his grip with the rest of the world to keep on holding on this one case... How old was he when he started playing the violin?"

They both look at one another at the suddenness of a question that seems to not relate with their topic at hand.

"I don't know... Probably at a young age, I guess," John answers with a shrug.

"His mastery is flawless," Irene comments, making Mary raise her brows at Irene's way of compliment.

"This is not exactly one of his best works," John comments. "He usually makes better music than that."

"Because composing requires him of immediate and complete concentration. His mind right now is concentrated on something else and yet his body and his subconscious can still manage to create—" she abruptly stops to pointedly look at Sherlock and listen to the music he is producing by plucking the strings—"that. His _uniqueness_ makes him interesting. I do not feel ashamed to reveal that I am fascinated with Sherlock. I am certain everyone is fascinated with him... The only thing that slightly differs people from other people is the reaction on his uniqueness." She smirks.

"I never really thought of it that way," John whispers. "Him playing is just kind of... _normal_."

Irene chuckles. "It seems that you have been in the insane world of Sherlock Holmes long enough to think that his uniqueness would be seen as common."

Mary laughs. "He does have that effect on everyone."

John sighs and stands up. "Well, he won't be moving for a while now so we all better get going. We're still needed at the Hospital Wing," he addresses Mary.

"Of course," Mary replies, standing up as well. Both do not move towards the door and look at Irene instead.

John pauses, hesitating but finally looks at Irene in the eye. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out of it.

"I will not kill him nor harm him, Sir Watson. You may leave me alone with him. I am a big girl. I can take good... _care_ of the professor." She says the last sentence with a huge Cheshire-Cat grin. Mary rolls her eyes.

"That doesn't sound reassuring," John mumbles.

"I shall merely talk to him when he has regained _consciousness_ ," Irene says seriously, "and nothing else. Although the last part might not be a complete promise." She smirks devilishly, slowly looking at Sherlock up and down.

John clears his throat at the tension in the room.

"Don't be surprised if he keeps talking to me."

"He does not notice when you leave the room, does he?" Irene smirks.

"Er, not really."

"He'll probably be surprised that he's seating and holding his violin," Mary comments under her breath. She turns to look at John. "You head down first. I'll be down in a bit."  John glances at Irene briefly and back to Mary in question. "I won't be long. I'll tell you later."

John nods at Mary and turns to look at Irene. "Lady Adler," he says.

"Sir Watson," she replies with a small graceful nod in return.

"Right," John mutters before turning to leave the room. 

Mary follows her gaze on her boyfriend. Her smile drops when the door closes behind him. Her head whirls towards the witch who is still looking at Sherlock with an unreadable look in her eyes.

"What are you doing here?" she demands.

"I believe we have been over this," Irene replies without looking away from Sherlock.

Mary narrows her eyes at Irene. "If you're here to hurt Sherlock—"

"Is that sentiment I hear?"

Mary walks to stand between Sherlock and Irene.  "Sherlock is my  _friend_ and if you take one step out of turn, I will—"

"Yes?"

Mary steps forward to place her hands on the arms of the chair which Irene is sitting on. She leans down on the witch to show that Irene does not have the dominance in the room. However, as Irene raises her head, stretching her neck, Mary knows that she seems to be slightly failing but she will  _not_ be going down without a fight.

"One wrong move, _Irene_ , and I  _will_ bring you down."

"You threaten me in front of Sherlock? Will he not be suspicious of your actions?" Irene asks.

"You heard John. He won't hear our conversation."

"And so you feel free to threaten me." Irene chuckles.  "And how will you do that?" Irene raises a brow. "Any word against me will make anyone know that you know me from the past. You cannot say anything about me without showing your secrets. Then again, I _am_ rather curious to know how Sir Watson will take the information. Have you been a bad girl, Rosie?"

"My name is _Mary_. Don't test me, _Izzy_  [2]."

Irene chuckles. "I haven't heard that nickname in years."

"Losing friends now, are you?" Mary challenges.

Irene merely smirks. "Why do you want to know? Want to be my friend again...  _Rosie_?"

Mary grits her teeth, standing straight again. "You better leave Sherlock alone."

"But he's so much fun."

Mary glares at Irene who looks back at her defiantly. "One step out of line, _Lady Adler_... One... step... out of _line_..."

Without another word from either witch, Mary leaves the room.

Irene continues to sit there in John's usual armchair, with her legs folded underneath, looking at the professor in front of her.

* * *

It seems to be a slow day for the healers since the Hospital Wing is completely empty. John is currently lying on one of the beds with a book in his hand. He sits up at the arrival of Mary.

"Hey," John greets Mary as soon as she entered the Hospital Wing.

"Hey," Mary replies, sitting near his feet.

"What was that about?" he asks.

"Just some girl stuff," she answers cryptically. "I do believe Lady Adler when she said she won't be harming Sherlock as of this moment..."

"Yes..." he whispers.

"What's wrong, my love?"

John clears his throat. "Er, nothing... nothing... It's just... I've had enough talks about dark-haired sociopaths and how much they're trying to deny how much they like each other."

"Oh, so you're not completely blind, then?"

"I was the youngest Head Auror in History before Potter came along... and I graduated Hogwarts with one of the highest grades in the batch. I'm not stupid, you know."

"You'll do," Mary replies with a smirk.

"Do you really think it was wise of us to leave the two of them alone?" John asks Mary uncertainly.

"They're adults. They can handle themselves."

"They're also both insanely dangerous lunatics who happen to be sociopaths. I'm a bit worried," John laughs.

"They'll be fine."

"How do you know? What did you and Lady Adler talk about?" John asks curiously.

"Just women stuff. I told you: a girl knows these kinds of things. She won't hurt him... negatively physical, anyway."

"' _Negatively physical_ '?" he questions.

Mary rolls her eyes. "John, you know her line of work... Who knows what they'll be doing when Sherlock comes out of his mind and realises that we left them both alone together."

John frowns. "Merlin, the mental image is too much."

Mary laughs. "Well, we got to remove the bad images in your brain, then," she says with a smirk. "It'll take a great amount of distraction to do just that."

"And how are you going to achieve that, Healer Morstan?"

"I have my methods, Healer Watson."

John and Mary had found another interesting way to spend time in one of the beds in the Hospital Wing that day. They had vanished the bed. It wouldn't be pleasant for a student to lie down there whilst both the healers smirk at the memory of what they have done and what they are... capable of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Quill that writes what is dictated.
> 
> [2] Apparently, in the original script of A Scandal in Belgravia, Mycroft tells Sherlock that Irene is referred to as "Izzy" by her friends. I KNOW RIGHT!! IM LIKE WOAHHHHH
> 
> IZZY AND SHEZZA... I BET THEY USED THOSE NAMES WHEN HE WAS ON HIATUS...


	12. The Mesmerising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this one's a bit shorter.

 

**Photographs made by me.  
** See more from i-am-adlocked.tumblr.com

* * *

A few hours after Lady Adler and Professor Holmes were left alone together, a house elf had appeared in order to place the fire in the fireplace. After she had expressed her gratitude at the house elf, the house elf had informed her that it would be a long time until the professor would come back to present time—to which Irene had told him that she would wait until then.

Giving her a long look, the elf had disappeared with a snap of his fingers.

After a few more hours, the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, Professor Sherlock, is still thinking to himself continues as night falls at Hogwarts, gently plucking the strings of the violin. Going through his mind and remembering Mycroft talking to his Leopard Patronus at the Great Hall.

" _Bond Air is go. That's decided. Check with the Coventry lot._ "

The Last Magical Person of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Adler, Lady Irene, on the other hand, after that talk with both Healers Sir John and Madame _Mary_ , continues to watch the professor with both amusement and awe.

She had not bothered to change from his dressing robe at all and decided to stay curled up on Sir Watson's usual armchair after that talk with Rosamund.

It is a rather good opportunity to be able to watch him with close proximity and straight-forwardly without him really noticing it. How can one be so focused on their thoughts to completely dissipate from the grasp of reality?

 _It is greatly perplexing how he can just retreat in his own mind like that_ , she thinks to herself, not even caring about how different this makes her from before. It would not have been the first time she had fallen in—she stops her thought.

 _ He is a mystifying man and that does not even include his skills with the magical arts,  _ she continues to think in awe. She recalls every moment they had met without anyone's knowledge and think how unique he is in every way.

"Coventry," the wizard in front of her suddenly says, rousing and looking up at her.

"I've never been," she replies automatically in surprise.

Sherlock's eyes widen at the very different person sitting in front of him. He decides to ignore the fact that her eyes had widened as well at his sudden rousing, and that she seems almost... excited to hear him awake from his journey in his mind palace.

"Is it nice?" she asks him genuinely and curiously.

Sherlock looks at her, surprised at the normality of her question and her genuine curiosity of his opinion. Finally, he manages to compose himself from this rather pleasant surprise.

_ Pleasant? Why would I_ _—?_   he scoffs to himself, swallowing his idiocy away.

"Where's John?" he asks, accidentally looking at the whole of her. 

He tries not to notice how comfortable she is. He tries not to observe the fact that she had been observing  _him_ this whole time. He tries to ignore the fact that she is still wearing his dressing robe. He tries to ignore the observation that she is wearing absolutely  _nothing_ under his dressing robe.

Irene simply smirks in amusement at the professor's question.

"He went out," she replies, smiling with her nose wrinkling and her eyes squinting at him as if he had said something funny, "couple of hours ago."

Sherlock's brows furrow at that. "I was just talking to him."

Irene smiles. "He _said_ you do that."

With that, Sherlock sighs and puts the violin down in exasperation. What had they been talking about? Had it been hours since they had all talked together? What could they have conversed on? He may never know. Legilimency would not do well with the woman. He would have to find out through John.

"Your students—they have taken a liking to you," she whispers so quietly that he almost didn't hear her.

"I suppose..." he whispers before looking at her straight in the eye. "Does it surprise you?"

"No," she answers truthfully, "although a seer would not have foreseen this at all." She gives him a small smile and he simply stares at her. Her smile falls at the look in his eyes—something she has never seen in his eyes before.

"You brought three prophecies," he suddenly points out, remembering the events earlier.

"I did," she says, nodding with her eyes slightly moving towards the desk where all four of them had been when they were deciphering the code.

"May I?" he asks.

"All yours," she whispers, raising a hand towards the table.

Sherlock does not need to turn around to know that she is using wandless magic to levitate what he is asking for. He debates the voice in his head that is telling him that he is staring at her as she calmly uses advanced wizard magic without a sweat, and that he is in awe at her. No, the voice is wrong, of course.

He looks down at the two glass spheres in front of him and he places them on the arm of his chair. Taking the first one, he looks at the inscription on the wood it is resting on.

**S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D.**  
Dark Lord  
and (?) Harry Potter

"May I ask why you have a copy of Potter's prophecy?" Sherlock asks curiously.

Before Irene had replied, like earlier this morning, the voice of Sybill Patricia Trelawney echoes through the room:

The one with the power to  
vanquish the Dark Lord  
approaches... born to those  
who have thrice defied him,  
born as the seventh month  
dies... and the Dark Lord  
will mark him as his equal,  
but he will have power the  
Dark Lord knows not... and  
either must die at the hand  
of the other for neither can  
live while the other  
survives... the one with the  
power to vanquish the Dark  
Lord will be born as the  
seventh month dies...

"Fascinating," he whispers as the voice disappears to an echo. "Was this not destroyed after Neville Longbottom accidentally kicked and smashed it in the Death Chamber in the Battle of the Department of Mysteries?"

"Aren't you informed?" she asks amusedly.

"I was there," he tells her.  She raises a brow in surprise. "Being an acquaintance of Harry Potter has its ups and downs."

"I can imagine," she replies.

"How did you acquire a copy?" he asks.

Irene simply smiles in reply, and he sighs, knowing that she would not reveal exactly how she grabs information. The prophecy would have been an amazing asset at the time of the Second World War.

Taking the second sphere, Sherlock's head tilts in curiosity at the inscription which reads:

**E.H.** **to A.M.** [1][2]  
The Network  
and The Newton

"What is the—?"

"I have no idea," she replies with a small frown, "but I am inclined to believe that it is important information."

Just then, a female voice that sounds both childish and too knowing that he almost suspects that she is aware she is prophesying. 

The Newton against the  
Third shall form... the  
strongest of the mightiest  
found... survivor, stauncher,  
searcher, soldier, schemer...  
and the centre shall await  
the coming of the equal...  
One shall fall, others shall  
go on... The Network runs  
vast and the Newton shall  
suffer... and one shall return  
to a powerful rage.

Sherlock's brows furrow at that. "Why do you think it is important information?" Sherlock asks her.

"It was classified information and is said to be information that may or may not be something innocent lives will depend on," she says calmly, looking at the sphere in Sherlock's hand.

Raising a hand, Sherlock moves the prophecies back on the desk where it had been before. He sighs and looks at the woman in front of her who seems to have been tracing his every movement. 

"From whom did you take this from?" he asks.

"I did not take this from anyone, Professor Holmes," she replies.

"Then who gave it to you?" he asks with a small sigh. He's been sighing a lot lately—with  _her_ around, can you blame him?

She lets out a breath, leaning back on the armchair much more comfortably. "An officer in the Ministry had presented it to me... to show-off. People are so keen to show-off to grab attention," she says off-handedly.

Sherlock chuckles at that, agreeing.

"What's Coventry got to do with anything?" she asks softly.

"I'm sorry, what?" Sherlock asks at the sudden question.

"Coventry, you said."

Sherlock notices that she is looking at him in a way she had never openly done before. Instead of feeling rather alarmed or discomfort by it, he seems almost... pleased about it.

Sherlock sighs to remove his wild debatable ideas  but proceeds to tell her. "It's a story," he says just as softly, surprised at the current mood, then takes a deep breath to continue, "probably not true. In the Second Muggle World War, the Allies knew that Coventry was going to get bombed because they'd broken the German code but they didn't want the Germans to _know_ that they'd broken the code, so they let it happen anyway."

"Have you ever had anyone?" Irene asks quietly.

Sherlock stares at her for a few moments before frowning at her blankly.

"Sorry?"

Irene smiles in amusement. "And when I say ' _had_ ', I'm being indelicate."

"I don't understand," Sherlock replies almost forcefully but completely and honestly understanding what exactly  _is_ happening.

"Well, I'll be delicate then," Irene replies.

The witch gets up from the chair slowly and walks over towards him in a grace he has never witnessed before. It is a soft grace and powerful yet not at all completely dominating—but very mesmerising.

She kneels in front of him, and he watches as she places her right hand on top of his right hand, and curling her fingers around his hand.

"Let's have dinner," she tells him, lowering herself for a much more comfortable position in front of him.

"Why?" he asks.

"Might be hungry."

"I'm not," he replies quickly.

"Good," she answers, just as quickly.

Uncertainly and looking down at her hand, Sherlock slowly leans forward on his armchair. "Why would I..." Sherlock gently turns his right hand over, and curls his own fingers over her hand and wrist. "...want to have..." Sherlock turns their hands so his hand would be over hers. "...dinner..."

Irene glances down at their now clasped hands briefly as her small smile shows more upon her face. She quickly looks at the wizard in front of her, and watch him as he talks.

Unabashedly and moving along the course of the tension in the room, he lets his eyes glide over her—from the top of her head to the curve of her lips. She smirks and her brows rise up at that.

Sherlock, then, looks deep into her eyes with a stare so much more intense, so much more seriously, and so much more meaningfully than they had ever had before. 

At first, she suspects that he would use Legilimency at her but she feels no prodding in her mind barriers at all. She knows he could have easily took information out of her head right then, but he didn't.  With that, she looks down at his lips, having the urge to claim them as hers.

"...if I wasn't hungry?" he asks, leaning closely towards her.

This time, it was Irene who leans forward with her gaze fixated upon his lips.

"Oh, Professor Holmes," she starts softly.

She could feel Sherlock gently stroke her across the wrist with his fingers. Her mind quickly reminds her of the fact that he is a master violinist who could perform on a stage if he decides to have a change of career.

She continues, "If it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night—" she looks up and stares back at his eyes deeply and just as intensely—"would you have dinner with me?"

A knock on the common room door interrupts them with a cry of "Sherlock!" from Professor Hudson. Sherlock's eyes slide towards his door.

"Too late," Irene says quietly in a rather melancholy tone.

"That's not the end of the world; that's Professor Hudson," he tells her.

Irene, then, pulls her hand free and stands up, walking away from him. As she walks to stand by the doorway to his personal quarters, he lets his gaze follow her and he notices that she kept her eyes on him as well.

He looks away from her to look at the door just as Professor Hudson opens it with Plummer—the same wizard who had taken him from the Leaky Cauldron and to Buckingham Palace months back.

"Sherlock, this man was looking for you. Is our fireplace still not working with the Floo Network?" Professor Hudson turns around and points at Sherlock. "He closed it."

Irritated and annoyed, he crossly asks him, "Have you come to take me away _again_?"

"Yes, Professor Holmes."

"Well, I decline," Sherlock says irritably, shaking his head in emphasis and looking away sulkily.

"I don't think you do," Plummer says, taking an envelope from the inside of his jacket and giving it to him.

Irene crosses her arms and leans by the door, watching the occurrence in front of her. Professor Hudson sees her immediately and was about to ask if she was a client of Sherlock's before she notices that she is wearing Sherlock's favourite and best dressing robe.

She narrows her eyes at the woman standing beside her and who is looking at Sherlock with an almost longing look in her eyes. Her eyes go across Sherlock who seems more irritated than usual. Not to mention, she had also witnessed that Sherlock and the woman seemed awfully close earlier.

She makes the quick connection.

Sherlock, with a quick glance, as if he is a child, snatches the envelope from Plummer and opens it.

He sees a Business Class boarding pass with his name on it for Flyaway Airways with the flight number 007 to Baltimore, leaving at 18 30. This was the flight with the code he had just decoded earlier.

He looks up from the boarding pass in his hands and to the eyes of Irene, who again, rises up in surprise at being the centre of his attention once more. His eye twitches slightly at the reminder that she is still wearing his blue dressing robe rather comfortably...

...and he is irritated at the fact that he likes the fact that she is wearing it.

Sighing, he stands up from the armchair and takes his black wizarding robes and transfigures it into a muggle coat, slinging it over his arm. Looking around, he looks up in surprise as Irene hands him his blue scarf.

Slowly, he takes it from her hands, but not putting it on as her arms slowly fall to her sides.

"You have a plane to catch," she says quietly just as Plummer walks out of the common room.

"I do," he replies just as quietly. "Are you staying?" he asks her.

Irene simply smiles in reply. "Keen to keep me here, are you?" she asks.

"You were asking for a place to hide," he says.

"I have my box," Irene replies, "and now I can walk free."

Sherlock nods. "Will you be...?" he asks but pauses.  _Will you be alright?_ he was about to ask but he doesn't feel this to be an appropriate moment to start being...  _human_.

"I will," she replies, unsurprisingly understanding of his meaning.

"Alright, Professor Hudson, might need some food," he says as she turns to the other woman in the room—who yelps in surprise at suddenly being addressed since she was so busy watching the other two.

"I'm a professor here, dear, not your housekeeper."

"Won't be long," he says as he goes through the door but everyone knows that he was addressing Irene.

She watches as Sherlock leaves the room and she sighs when the door closes behind him.

"Are you alright, dear?" she hears Professor Hudson ask her.

"Of course, Professor Hudson," she says with a smile.

"I'll make you a cuppa," she tells her.

"Oh, there is no need, professor," she reassures her.

"Now, now, dear, any friend of Sherlock's is a friend of mine," she says with a small grin, winking at her as she does so.

"I will be leaving soon," she informs her.

"Then I better be quick," she says with a smile, walking out as well.

Shaking her head and uncaring with the fact that she is only wearing Sherlock's blue dressing robe, she walks out of their common room and goes towards the balcony just beside the room.

She sees the helicopter in the middle of the Quidditch field—the muggle vehicle being a complete contrast to all things wizard and medieval in the castle. After a few moments, she sees two men walk out from below and to the helicopter.

Unbeknownst to her, two giggling students who had gone through the same corridor she is currently in, are now frozen and begins to quickly run away before she sees them.

Irene watches Sherlock enter the helicopter, and finally walks away when the helicopter had finally flown away. 

Inside the helicopter, Sherlock watches through the window as the small frame of Irene walks away from the balcony.

* * *

"ALVIE! ALVIE!" two Ravenclaw girls practically scream.

They quickly open the door to their dormitory and they gasp, turning away immediately at the scene before them.

"DAMMIT ESSIE, AURORA!" Alvie yells, pushing Mark away from her at the sudden commotion.

The very much naked Hufflepuff falls over, dragging the blanket with him. Alvie yells, yanking the blanket back and throwing his clothes back at him just as she reaches for her clothes to spare themselves at least.

"Oh my God, Alvie and Mark," Aurora whispers under her breath.

"You're surprised by _that_?" Essie asks, looking at the light-brown-haired Ravenclaw, "I'm more horrified with the fact that they're having sex in _our fucking dormitory_ ," Essie grumbles as well.

"Oh, shut up, you two!" Alvie says, blushing terribly.

"Yeah, guys, and you can both turn around now," Mark replies.

"I swear to Merlin, Mark, if you're still naked—" Essie says.

"Like _I'd_ let you see  _that_ ," Alvie whispers under her breath and the other three laugh. "What do you want?" Alvie asks, crossing her arms and staring them down when both Aurora and Essie finally turn around but still not looking at both Alvie and Mark in the eye.

"There was a woman coming out of the professors' common room," Essie informs them with less enthusiasm than she would have had.

"You mean Professor Holmes's girlfriend?" Alvie asks. "Yeah, we already know."

"She was wearing his dressing robe, too," Aurora says.

"The blue one?" Alvie asks.

"Yeah," Aurora says.

"Wait, how do you know it was his dressing robe?" Mark asks her.

"Oh please, Alvie wouldn't shut up about Professor Holmes," Essie says.

" _Guys_ ," Alvie threatens.

"Oh, really?" Mark asks with a smirk.

"Why aren't you questioning why _Aurora_ knows his dressing robe?" Alvie asks.

Aurora blushes. "Oh, don't deny it, everyone has a crush on Professor Holmes," she says.

"Everyone in this room has a crush on Professor Holmes except me," Essie says, "but even though I'm a lesbian, I'm not blind."

"Yeah, we're all gay here," Mark comments, "and Professor Holmes is _really_ good-looking, isn't he?" [3]

"You know what I want to know? I want to know why you two are out together alone without me," Alvie says, pointing at the other two Ravenclaws.

"Well, you seemed to be too busy sha—" Essie starts sarcastically but Alvie cuts her off.

"Oh yes, broom closets, I remember now," Alvie replies pointedly.

"We were going to the kitchen," Essie says with a sigh.

"And snog there?" Mark asks. Essie simply smirks.

"What we do with our spare time is none of your business," Aurora says boldly but failing.

"It is... We're Head Boy and Girl. We can give you detentions," Alvie says.

"And does everyone know you two are on shagging terms now?" Essie asks.

"W... well..."

"Keep our secrets, we keep yours," Essie says.

"Deal," Alvie grumbles with a sigh.

"Speaking of deals," Mark says with a grin, "you two sooo owe us three galleons."

"Why? We only know that Professor Holmes has a girlfriend. We don't know his sexuality," Essie says.

"Ugh. Alvie, your friends are hard to crack," he grumbles, flopping down on the bed.

"They _are_ Ravenclaws, and loopholes are our favourites," Alvie replies. "Still, whatever their sexualities are, we can rule out lesbian and gay. So there's still bi, pan, and a whole lot more." She grumbles. "Ugh, why is your bet so specific?" she asks the other two Ravenclaws.

"Because we'll never have an answer to that bet, so we don't have to pay anything unless Professor Holmes tells us," Aurora replies.

"Wait, how did you even get in here? Alvie, did you let Mark in?!" Essie demands.

"No. You _know_ the Ravenclaw Common Room allows anyone to enter as long as they can answer the eagle doorknob's riddle correctly... and Mark may be stupid but he can certainly answer his riddles."

"I'll get you for that."

"You'll have to score later."

"Oh, shut up, you two!" Aurora says, walking away from the dormitory with Essie following her just as the other two start snogging once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] ( ͡°‿ʖ ͡°)
> 
> [2] This one is a name of the actor instead of the character himself because his character had no name in the show so I had to use the name of the actor instead.  
> ( ͡°‿ʖ ͡°)
> 
> [3] A lot of hate is going on in the Adlock fandom.  
> Here is a little thing to show that even bisexuals say they are gay even though they're not gay, they're bi... cause Irene is not gay, she's either bi, pan, or another. TAKE THAT HATERS *cough* T J L C *cough*!


End file.
